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Olcott + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Lure of the Camera + +Author: Charles S. Olcott + +Release Date: April 25, 2011 [EBook #35960] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LURE OF THE CAMERA *** + + + + +Produced by Marius Masi, Greg Bergquist and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<table border="0" cellpadding="10" style="background-color: #dcdcdc; color: #696969; " summary="Transcriber's note"> +<tr> +<td style="width:25%; vertical-align:top"> +Transcriber’s note: +</td> +<td class="norm"> +A few typographical errors have been corrected. They +appear in the text <span class="correction" title="explanation will pop up">like this</span>, and the +explanation will appear when the mouse pointer is moved over the marked +passage. +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<div class="center pt2"><img style="width:490px; height:720px; vertical-align: middle;" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="" /></div> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<div class="center" style="width: 18em; margin: auto; border: solid 3px #909090; padding: 1em;"> +By Charles S. Olcott<br /> +<hr class="short" /> +THE LURE OF THE CAMERA. Illustrated. <br /> +THE COUNTRY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.<br /> +Illustrated.       <br /><br /> +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY<br /> +<span class="sc">Boston and New York</span> +</div> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<p class="center f150">THE LURE OF THE CAMERA</p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:493px; height:730px" src="images/img006.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE STEPPING STONES</td></tr></table> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<p class="pt2 f200 center" style="color: #993300;">THE LURE OF THE<br /> +CAMERA</p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<p class="center f90">BY</p> +<p class="center f150">CHARLES S. OLCOTT</p> + +<p class="center f80"><i>Author of “George Eliot: Scenes and People of<br /> +her Novels” and “The Country<br /> +of Sir Walter Scott”</i><br /><br /></p> + +<p class="center f90">ILLUSTRATED FROM PHOTOGRAPHS<br /> +BY THE AUTHOR</p> + +<div class="center pt2"><img style="width:182px; height:252px; vertical-align: middle;" src="images/img007.jpg" alt="" /></div> +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<p class="center"><span class="f80">BOSTON AND NEW YORK</span><br /> +HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY<br /> +<span class="f80">The Riverside Press Cambridge</span> +1914</p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<p class="center f80">COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY CHARLES S. OLCOTT<br /> + +ALL RIGHTS RESERVED<br /><br /> + +<i>Published September 1914</i></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<p class="center" style="letter-spacing: 0.2em;">TO MY BOYS<br /> + +GAGE, CHARLES, AND HOWARD<br /> + +THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY<br /> + +DEDICATED</p> +<p class="pt2"> </p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">PREFACE</p> + +<p><span class="sc chap1">The</span> difference between a ramble and a journey +is about the same as that between pleasure +and business. When you go anywhere for a +serious purpose, you make a journey; but if you +go for pleasure (and don’t take the pleasure too +seriously, as many do) you only ramble.</p> + +<p>The sketches in this volume, which takes its +name from the first chapter, are based upon +“rambles,” which were for the most part merely +incidental excursions, made possible by various +“journeys” undertaken for more serious purposes. +It has been the practice of the author for +many years to carry a camera on his travels, so +that, if chance should take him within easy distance +of some place of literary, historic, or scenic +interest, he might not miss the opportunity to +pursue his favorite avocation.</p> + +<p>If the reader is asked to make long flights, as +from Scotland to Italy, then back, across the Atlantic, +to New England, and thence overland to +Wyoming and Arizona, he must remember that +ramblers take no account of distance or direction. +In this case they must take no account of time, +for these rambles are but the chance happenings +that have occurred at intervals in a period +of more than a dozen years.</p> + +<p>People who are in a hurry, and those who in +traveling seek to “do” the largest number of +places in the shortest number of days, are advised +not to travel with an amateur photographer. Not +only must he have leisure to find and study his +subjects, but he is likely to wander away from +the well-worn paths and use up his time in making +inquiries, in a fashion quite exasperating to +the tourist absorbed in his itinerary.</p> + +<p>The rambles here chronicled could not possibly +be organized into an itinerary or moulded +into a guidebook. The author simply invites +those who have inclinations similar to his own, +to wander with him, away from the customary +paths of travel, and into the homes of certain distinguished +authors or the scenes of their writings, +and to visit with him various places of +historic interest or natural beauty, without a +thought of maps, distances, time-tables, or the +toil and dust of travel. This is the real essence +of rambling.<br /><br /></p> + +<p>The chapter on “The Country of Mrs. Humphry +Ward” was published originally in <i>The +Outlook</i> in 1909, and “A Day in Wordsworth’s +Country,” in the same magazine in 1910.</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">CONTENTS</p> + +<table class="ws" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td class="tcr">I.</td> <td class="tcl sc" colspan="2">The Lure of the Camera</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page1">1</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcr">II.</td> <td class="tcl sc" colspan="2">Literary Rambles in Great Britain</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page15">15</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td> <td class="tcl f80" colspan="2">English Courtesy—The George Eliot Country—<br /> +  Experiences in Rural England. Overcoming<br /> +  Obstacles—A London “Bobby”—Carlyle’s<br /> +  Birthplace—The Country of Scott and Burns</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcr">III.</td> <td class="tcl sc" colspan="2">A Day in Wordsworth’s Country</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page49">49</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcr">IV.</td> <td class="tcl sc" colspan="2">From Hawthornden to Roslin Glen</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page73">73</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcr">V.</td> <td class="tcl sc" colspan="2">The Country of Mrs. Humphry Ward</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page93">93</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td> <td class="tcr f80">I.</td> <td class="tcl sc">mrs. ward and her work</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page95">95</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td> <td class="tcr f80">II.</td> <td class="tcl sc">the real robert elsmere</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page110">110</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td> <td class="tcr f80">III.</td> <td class="tcl sc">other people and scenery</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page128">128</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcr">VI.</td> <td class="tcl sc" colspan="2">A Tour of the Italian Lakes</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page147">147</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcr">VII.</td> <td class="tcl sc" colspan="2">Literary Landmarks of New England</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page175">175</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td> <td class="tcr f80">I.</td> <td class="tcl sc">concord</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page179">179</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td> <td class="tcr f80">II.</td> <td class="tcl sc">salem</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page196">196</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td> <td class="tcr f80">III.</td> <td class="tcl sc">portsmouth</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page207">207</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td> <td class="tcr f80">IV.</td> <td class="tcl sc">the isles of shoals</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page222">222</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcr">VIII.</td> <td class="tcl sc" colspan="2">A Day With John Burroughs</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page233">233</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcr">IX.</td> <td class="tcl sc" colspan="2">Glimpses of the Yellowstone</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page251">251</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcr">X.</td> <td class="tcl sc" colspan="2">The Grand Cañon of Arizona</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page271">271</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td> </td> <td class="tcl sc" colspan="2">Index</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page297">297</a></td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="chap center">ILLUSTRATIONS</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="width: 80%;" summary="Contents"> +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Stepping Stones</td> <td class="tcr"><i>Frontispiece</i></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">On the River Rothay, near Ambleside, England, and +below Fox How, the home of Thomas Arnold of Rugby, +grandfather of Mrs. Humphry Ward. One of the scenes in +“Robert Elsmere” was suggested by these stones.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">A Path in Bretton Woods</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page10">10</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">White Mountains, N.H.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Profile Lake</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page12">12</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">Showing the Old Man of the Mountains.<br /> +In the Franconia Notch, White Mountains, N.H. The +profile suggested to Hawthorne the tale of “The Great +Stone Face.”</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Grand Saloon, Arbury Hall</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page22">22</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">Near Nuneaton, England. The original of Cheverel +Manor, in George Eliot’s “Mr. Gilfil’s Love Story.”</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">A School in Nuneaton</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page30">30</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">Where George Eliot attended school in her eighth or ninth +year.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Bromley-Davenport Arms</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page34">34</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">In Ellastone, England, the original of the “Donnithorne +Arms” of “Adam Bede.”</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Birthplace of Robert Burns</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page40">40</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">In Ayrshire, Scotland. The poet was born here January +25, 1759. The left of the building is the cottage of two +rooms where the family lived. Adjoining, on the right, is +the “byre,” or cow-house.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Burns Monument, Ayrshire</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page44">44</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The monument was built in 1820. It is sixty feet high, +and almost an exact duplicate of the monument in Edinburgh.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Brig o’ Doon, Ayrshire</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page48">48</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The bridge over which Tam o’ Shanter rode to escape +the witches.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Grasmere Lake</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page60">60</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">“For rest of body perfect was the spot.”</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Dove Cottage, Grasmere</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page64">64</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">Wordsworth’s home for eight years. The view is from +the garden in the rear of the cottage.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Wordsworth’s Well</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page68">68</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">In the garden of Dove Cottage, where the poet placed +“bright gowan and marsh marigold” brought from the +border of the lake.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Hawthornden</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page76">76</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The home of the Drummond family, on the banks of the +Esk, Scotland.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Sycamore</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page80">80</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The tree at Hawthornden under which William Drummond +met Ben Jonson.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Ruins of Roslin Castle</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page86">86</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">In Roslin Glen overlooking the Esk.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Mrs. Humphry Ward and Miss Dorothy Ward</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page96">96</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">At the villa in Cadenabbia, overlooking Lake Como, +where Mrs. Ward wrote “Lady Rose’s Daughter.”</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">“Under Loughrigg”</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page100">100</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The view from the study window of Thomas Arnold at +Fox How.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Passmore Edwards Settlement House</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page104">104</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">Tavistock Place, London.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Lime Walk</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page110">110</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">In the garden of Trinity College, Oxford. Referred to in +“Robert Elsmere.”</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Cottage of “Mary Backhouse”</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page114">114</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">At Sad Gill, Long Sleddale. The barns and storehouses, +on either end, give the small cottage an attenuated appearance.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Rectory of Peper Harow</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page118">118</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">In Surrey, England. The original of Murewell Rectory, +the house of “Robert Elsmere.”</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Rothay and Nab Scar</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page130">130</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">From Pelter Bridge, Ambleside, England.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Lake Como</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page138">138</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">From “the path that led to the woods overhanging the +Villa Carlotta.”</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Stocks</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page144">144</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The home of Mrs. Humphry Ward, near Tring, England.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Lake Maggiore, Italy</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page150">150</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">According to Ruskin the most beautiful of the Italian +Lakes.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Isola Bella, Lake Maggiore</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page154">154</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The costly summer home of Count Vitaliano Borromeo +in the Seventeenth Century.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Atrium of the Villa Maria</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page170">170</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">At Cadenabbia, Lake Como.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">“I call this my J. M. W. Turner”</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page174">174</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">View from the dining-room window of the Villa Maria.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Old Manse</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page180">180</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">In Concord, where Emerson wrote “Nature” and +Hawthorne lived for three years.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Walden Woods</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page184">184</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The cairn marks the site of Thoreau’s hut and “Thoreau’s +Cove” is seen in the distance.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">House of Ralph Waldo Emerson</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page190">190</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">Concord, Massachusetts.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Wayside</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page194">194</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">House in Concord, where Hawthorne lived in the latest +years of his life.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Mall Street House</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page200">200</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">Salem, Mass. The room in which Hawthorne wrote “The +Scarlet Letter” is in the third floor, front, on the left.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The House of the Seven Gables</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page204">204</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The house in Turner Street, Salem, Mass., built in 1669, +and owned by the Ingersoll family.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Bailey House</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page208">208</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The house in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, of Thomas +Bailey Aldrich’s grandfather, known as “Captain Nutter” +in “The Story of a Bad Boy.”</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">”Aunt Abigail’s” Room</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page212">212</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">In the “Nutter” House.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">An Old Wharf</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page216">216</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">On the Piscataqua River, Portsmouth, where Aldrich often +played in his boyhood.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Celia Thaxter’s Cottage</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page224">224</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">On Appledore, where the poet maintained her famous +“Island Garden.”</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Appledore</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page232">232</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">Trap-dike, on Appledore, the largest of the “Isles of +Shoals.”</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">John Burroughs at Woodchuck Lodge</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page238">238</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The summer home of Mr. Burroughs is near Roxbury, +New York, in the Catskill Mountains. When not at work +he enjoys “the peace of the hills.”</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">John Burroughs at Work</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page244">244</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The “study” is a barn, where the naturalist sits facing +the open doors. He looks out upon a stone wall where the +birds and small animals come to “talk with him.” The +“desk” is an old hen-coop, with straw in the bottom, to +keep his feet warm.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Hymen Terrace</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page254">254</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">At Mammoth Hot Springs in the Yellowstone National +Park.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Pulpit Terrace</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page258">258</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">A part of Jupiter Terrace, the largest of the formations at +Mammoth Hot Springs.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">Old Faithful</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page264">264</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The famous geyser in the Upper Geyser Basin of the Yellowstone +National Park. It plays a stream about one hundred +and fifty feet high every sixty-five minutes, with but slight +variations.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Grotto Geyser</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page266">266</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">A geyser in the Yellowstone National Park notable for its +fantastic crater.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Cañon of the Yellowstone River</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page268">268</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The view from Inspiration Point.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Trail, Grand Cañon</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page278">278</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The view shows the upper part of Bright Angels’ Trail, +as it appears when the ground is covered with snow.</td> <td> </td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl sc">The Grand Cañon of Arizona</td> <td class="tcr"><a href="#page290">290</a></td></tr> + +<tr><td class="tcl1 f90">The view from Bright Angels’. The plateau over which +the trail leads to the edge of the river is partly covered by +a deep shadow. The great formation in the left foreground +is known as the “Battleship.”</td> <td> </td></tr> +</table> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page1" id="page1"></a>1</span></p> + +<p class="center fo">I<br /> + +THE LURE OF THE CAMERA</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page2" id="page2"></a>2</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page3" id="page3"></a>3</span></p> + +<p class="chap center">THE LURE OF THE<br /> +CAMERA</p> + +<p class="center">I</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Two</span> pictures, each about the size of a large +postage-stamp, are among my treasured possessions. +In the first, a curly-headed boy of two, +in a white dress, is vigorously kicking a football. +The second depicts a human wheelbarrow, +the body composed of a sturdy lad of seven, +whose two plump arms serve admirably the purpose +of a wheel, his stout legs making an excellent +pair of handles, while the motive power is +supplied by an equally robust lad of eight, who +grasps his younger brother firmly by the ankles.</p> + +<p>These two photographs, taken with a camera +so small that in operation it was completely concealed +between the palms of my hands, revealed +to me for the first time the fascination of amateur +photography. The discovery meant that +whatever interested me, even if no more than +the antics of my children, might be instantly recorded. +I had no idea of artistic composition, +nor of the proper manipulation of plates, films, +and printing papers. Still less did I foresee that +the tiny little black box contained the germ of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page4" id="page4"></a>4</span> +an indefinable impulse, which, expanding and +growing more powerful year by year, was to lead +me into fields which I had never dreamed of exploring, +into habits of observation never before +a part of my nature, and into a knowledge of +countless places of historic and literary interest +as well as natural beauty and grandeur, which +would never have been mine but for the lure of +the camera.</p> + +<p>The spell began to make itself felt almost immediately. +I determined to buy a camera of my +own,—for the two infinitesimal pictures were +taken with a borrowed instrument,—and was +soon the possessor of a much larger black box +capable of making pictures three and a quarter +inches square. The film which came with it was +quickly “shot off,” and then came the impulse to +go somewhere. My wife and I decided to spend +a day at a pretty little inland lake, a few hours’ +ride from our home. I hastened to the druggist’s +to buy another film, and without waiting to insert +it in the camera, off we started. Arrived on +the scene, our first duty was to “load” the new +machine. The roll puzzled us a little. Somehow +the directions did not seem to fit. But we got it +in place finally and began to enjoy the pleasures +of photography.</p> + +<p>Our first view was a general survey of the +lake, which is nearly twelve miles long, with many +bays and indentations in the shore-line, making +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page5" id="page5"></a>5</span> +a rather large subject for a picture only three +and a quarter inches square. But such difficulties +did not seem formidable. The directions clearly +intimated that if we would only “press the button” +somebody would “do the rest,” and we +expected the intangible somebody to perform +his part of the contract as faithfully as we were +doing ours. Years afterward, chancing to pass +by the British Museum, which stretches its huge +bulk through Great Russell Street a distance of +nearly four hundred feet, we saw a little girl +taking its picture with a “Brownie” camera. +“That reminds me of ‘Dignity and Impudence,’” +said my wife, referring to Landseer’s +well-known painting which we had seen at the +National Gallery that afternoon. This is the +mistake which all amateurs make at first—that +of expecting the little instrument to perform impossible +feats.</p> + +<p>But to resume my story. We spent a remarkably +pleasant day composing beautiful views. +We shot at the bays and the rocks, at the +steamers and the sail-boats and at everything +else in sight except the huge ice-houses which +disfigure what would otherwise be one of the +prettiest lakes in America. We posed for each +other in picturesque attitudes on the rocks and +in a little rowboat which we had hired. We had +a delightful outing and only regretted when, all +too soon, the last film was exposed. But we felt +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page6" id="page6"></a>6</span> +unusually happy to think that we had a wonderful +record of the day’s proceedings to show to +our family and friends.</p> + +<p>That night I developed the roll, laboriously +cutting off one exposure at a time, and putting +it through the developer according to directions. +Number one was blank! Something wrong with +the shutter, I thought, and tried the next. Number +two was also blank!! What can this mean? +Perhaps I haven’t developed it long enough. +So into the fluid went another one, and this one +stayed a long time. To my dismay number three +was as vacant as the others, and so were all the +rest of the twelve. Early the next morning I was +at the drug store demanding an explanation. +The druggist confessed that the film-roll he had +sold me was intended for another camera, but +“It ought to have worked on yours,” he said. +Subsequent investigation proved that on my +camera the film was to be inserted on the left, +while on the other kind it went in on the right. +This difference seemed insignificant until I discovered +that in turning the roll to insert it on +the opposite side from what was intended, I had +brought the strip of black paper to the front of +the film, thus preventing any exposure at all! +Thus I learned the first principle of amateur +photography:—<i>Know exactly what you are +doing</i> and take no chances with your apparatus. +A young lady, to whom I once attempted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page7" id="page7"></a>7</span> +to explain the use of the various “stops” on +her camera, impatiently interrupted me with the +remark, “Well, that’s the way it was set when I +got it and I’m not going to bother to change it. +If the pictures are no good, I’ll send it back.” +It is such people who continually complain of +“bad luck” with their films.</p> + +<p>It was two or three years after the complete +failure of my first expedition before the camera +again exerted its spell, except that meanwhile it +was faithfully recording various performances of +the family, especially in the vacation season. It +was in the autumn of 1898. The victorious +American fleet had returned from Santiago and +all the famous battleships and cruisers were triumphantly +floating their ensigns in the breezes +of New York Harbor. “Here is a rare opportunity. +Come!” said the camera. Taking passage +on a steamer, I found a quiet spot by the lifeboats, +outside the rail, where the view would be +unobstructed. We passed in succession all the +vessels, from the doughty Texas, commanded by +the lamented Captain Philip, to the proud Oregon, +with the laurels of her long cruise around +Cape Horn to join in the fight. One by one I +photographed them all. Here, at last, I thought, +are some pictures worth while. I had been in the +habit of doing my own developing—with indifferent +success, it must be confessed. These exposures, +made under ideal conditions, were too +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page8" id="page8"></a>8</span> +precious to be risked, so I took the roll to a +prominent firm of dealers in photographic goods, +for developing and printing. Every one was +spoiled! Not a good print could be found in the +lot. Impure chemicals and careless handling had +left yellow spots and finger-marks on every negative! +Subsequent investigation revealed the fact +that a negro janitor had been entrusted with +the work. Here, then, was maxim number two +for the amateur—<i>Do your own developing</i>, +and be sure to master the details of the operation. +The old adage, “If you want a thing well +done, do it yourself,” applies with peculiar force +to photography.</p> + +<p>Another experience, which happened soon +after, came near ending forever all further attempts +in photography. This time I lost, not +only the negatives, but the camera itself. Having +accomplished very little, I resolved to try no +more. But a year or two later a friend offered +to sell me his 4 × 5 plate camera, with tripod, +focusing-cloth and all, at a ridiculously low +price, and enough of the old fever remained to +make me an easy—victim, shall I say? No! +How can I ever thank him enough? I put my +head under the focusing-cloth and for the first +time looked at the inverted image of a beautiful +landscape, reflected in all its colors upon the +ground glass. At that moment began my real +experience in photography. The hand camera is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page9" id="page9"></a>9</span> +only a toy. A child can use it as well as an expert. +It has its limitations like the stone walls of +a prison yard, and beyond them one cannot go. +All is guesswork. Luck is the biggest factor of +success. Artistic work is practically impossible. +It is not until you begin to compose your pictures +on the ground glass that art in photography +becomes a real thing. Then it is amazing +to see how many variations of the same scene +may be obtained, how many different effects of +light and shade, and how much depends upon +the point of view. Then, too, one becomes more +independent of the weather, for by a proper use +of the “stop” and careful application of the +principles of correct exposure, it is possible to +overcome many adverse conditions.</p> + +<p>An acquaintance once expressed surprise that +I was willing to spend day after day of my vacation +walking about with a heavy camera case, +full of plate-holders in one hand, and a bulky +tripod slung over my shoulder. I replied that it +was no heavier than a bagful of golf-sticks, that +the walk took me through an endless variety of +beautiful scenery, and that the game itself was +fascinating. Of course, my friend could not appreciate +my point of view, for he had never +paused on the shore of some sparkling lake to +study the ripple of the waters, the varying shades +of green in the trees of the nearest bank, the +pebbly beach with smooth flat stones whitening +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page10" id="page10"></a>10</span> +in the sun, but looking cooler and darker where +seen through the transparent cover of the shallow +water, the deep purple of the undulating hills in +the distance, and above it all the canopy of filmy, +foamy cumulus clouds, with flat bases and rounded +outlines, and here and there a glimpse of the +loveliest cerulean blue. He had never looked upon +such scenes as these with the exhilarating thought +that something of the marvelous beauty which +nature daily spreads before us can be captured +and taken home as a permanent reminder of +what we have seen.</p> + +<p>To catch the charm of such a scene is no child’s +play. It requires the use of the best of lenses and +other appliances, skill derivable only from long +study and experience, and a natural appreciation +of the artistic point of view. It requires even +more, for the plate must be developed and the +prints made, both operations calling for skill and +a sense of the artistic.</p> + +<p>The underlying pleasure in nearly all sports and +in many forms of recreation is the overcoming of +obstacles. The football team must defeat a heavy +opposing force to gain any sense of satisfaction. +If the opponents are “easy,” there is no fun in +the game. The hunter who incurs no hardship +complains that the sport is tame. A fisherman +would rather land one big black bass after a long +struggle than catch a hundred perch which almost +jump into your boat without an invitation.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:509px; height:725px" src="images/img031.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">A PATH IN BRETTON WOODS</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page11" id="page11"></a>11</span></p> + +<p>Photography as a sport possesses this element +in perfection. Those who love danger may find +plenty of it in taking snap-shots of charging +rhinoceroses, or flash-light pictures of lions and +tigers in the jungle. Those who like hunting may +find more genuine enjoyment in stalking deer for +the purpose of taking the animal’s picture than +they would get if they took his life. Those who +care only to hunt landscapes—and in this class +I include myself—can find all the sport they +want in the less strenuous pursuit. There is not +only the exhilaration of searching out the attractive +scenes,—the rugged mountain-peak; the +woodland brook; the shady lane, with perhaps a +border of white birches; the ruined castle; the +seaside cliffs; the well-concealed cascade; or the +scene of some noteworthy historical event,—but +the art of photography itself presents its own +problems at every turn. To solve all these; to +select the right point of view; to secure an artistic +“balance” in all parts of the picture; to avoid +the ugly things that sometimes persist in getting +in the way; to make due allowance for the effect +of wind or motion; to catch the full beauty of +the drifting clouds; to obtain the desired transparency +in the shadows,—these and a hundred +other considerations give sufficient exercise to the +most alert mind and add to the never-ending +fascination of the game.</p> + +<p>I have noticed that the camera does not lure +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page12" id="page12"></a>12</span> +one into the beaten tracks which tourists most +frequent. It is helpless on the top of a crowded +coach or in a swiftly flying motor-car. It gets +nervous when too many people are around, especially +if they are in a hurry, and fails to do its +work. It must be allowed to choose its own paths +and to proceed with leisure and calmness. It is +a charming guide to follow. I have always felt +a sense of relief when able to escape the interminable +jargon of the professional guides who +conduct tourists through the various show places +of Europe, and so far as it has been my fortune +to visit such places, have usually left with a vague +feeling of disappointment. On the other hand, +when, acting under the spell of the camera, I have +sought an acquaintance with the owner of some +famous house and have proceeded at leisure to +photograph the rooms and objects of interest, I +have left not only with a sense of complete satisfaction, +but with a new friendship to add to the +pleasure of future memories.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:527px; height:720px" src="images/img035.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">PROFILE LAKE</td></tr></table> + +<p>To visit the places made famous by their associations +with literature and with history; to seek +the wonders of nature, whether sublime and awe-inspiring, +like the mountain-peaks of Switzerland +and the vast depths of the Grand Cañon, or restful +in their sweet simplicity like the quiet hills +and valleys of Westmoreland; to see the people +in their homes, whether stately palaces or humble +cottages; to find new beauty daily, whether at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page13" id="page13"></a>13</span> +home or abroad, in the shady woodland path, in +the sweep of the hills and the ever-changing +panorama of the clouds; to gain that relief from +the cares of business or professional life which +comes from opening the mind to a free and full +contemplation of the picturesque and beautiful,—these +are the possibilities offered by amateur +photography to those who will follow the lure of +the camera.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page14" id="page14"></a>14</span></p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page15" id="page15"></a>15</span></p> + +<p class="center fo">II<br /> + +LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page16" id="page16"></a>16</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page17" id="page17"></a>17</span></p> + +<p class="chap center">II<br /> + +LITERARY RAMBLES IN GREAT BRITAIN</p> + +<p class="center">I</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Emerson</span> said of the English people, “Every +one of these islanders is an island himself, +safe, tranquil, incommunicable,” and that “It is +almost an affront to look a man in the face without +being introduced.” Holmes, on the contrary, records +that he and his daughter were “received +with nothing but the most overflowing hospitality +and the most considerate kindness.” Lowell +found the average Briton likely to regard himself +as “the only real thing in a wilderness of shams,” +and thought his patronage “divertingly insufferable.” +On the other hand, he praised the genuineness +of the better men of England, as “so +manly-tender, so brave, so true, so warranted to +wear, they make us proud to feel that blood is +thicker than water.” Longfellow met at dinner +on two successive days what he called “the two +opposite poles of English character.” One of +them was “taciturn, reserved, fastidious” and +without “power of enjoyment”; the other was +“expansive, hilarious, talking incessantly, laughing +loud and long.” All of this suggests that in +attempting to write one’s impressions of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page18" id="page18"></a>18</span> +English or any other people, one must remember, +what I once heard a Western schoolmaster declare +with great emphasis—“some people are +not all alike!”</p> + +<p>I have but one impression to record, namely, +that, almost without exception, the people whom +we met, both in England and Scotland, manifested +a spirit of helpfulness that made our photographic +work delightful and led to the accomplishment +of results not otherwise obtainable. +They not only showed an unexpected interest in +our work, but seemed to feel some sense of obligation +to assist. This was true even of the policeman +at the gate of the Tower of London, who, +according to his orders, deprived me of my camera +before I could enter. But upon my protesting, +he referred me to another guardian of the place, +and he to another, until, continuing to pass +“higher up,” I was at last photographing everything +of interest, including the “Beef-Eater” +who obligingly carried my case of plates. Whenever +difficulties arose, these helpful people always +seemed ready with suggestions. It seemed to be +more than courtesy. It was rather a friendly sympathy, +a desire that I might have what I came +for, and a kind of personal anxiety that I should +not be disappointed.</p> + +<p>An incident which happened at the very outset +of our photographic experiences in England, +and one which was responsible in large measure +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page19" id="page19"></a>19</span> +for much of the success of that undertaking, will +serve as an example of the genial and sympathetic +spirit which seemed to be everywhere +prevalent. We had started to discover and to +photograph, so far as possible, the scenes of +George Eliot’s writings, and on the day of our +arrival in London, my wife had found in the +British Museum a particularly interesting portrait +of George Henry Lewes. She learned that +permission to copy it must be obtained from the +Keeper of the Prints, and accordingly, on the +following morning I appeared in the great room +of the Museum where thousands of rare prints +are carefully preserved.</p> + +<p>Sir Sidney Colvin, the distinguished biographer +of Robert Louis Stevenson, and the head of +this department, was not in, but a polite assistant +made note of my name and message, making +at the same time an appointment for the next day. +At the precise hour named I was present again, +revolving in my mind the briefest possible method +of requesting permission to copy the Lewes picture. +Presently I was informed that Mr. Colvin +wished to see me, and I followed the guide, mechanically +repeating to myself the little formula +or speech I intended to make, and wondering +what luck I should have. The formula disappeared +instantly as a pleasant-faced gentleman advanced +with outstretched hand and genial smile, +calling me by name and saying, “I have something +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page20" id="page20"></a>20</span> +I want to show you, if you would care to +see it.” Considerably surprised, I saw him touch +a button as he resumed,—“It’s a picture of +George Eliot,—at least we think it is, but we +are not sure,—we bought it from the executor +of the estate of Sir Frederic Burton, the artist.” +Here the attendant appeared and was instructed +to get the portrait. It proved to be a large painting +in water-colors of a woman’s face, with remarkably +strong, almost masculine features and +a pair of eyes that seemed to say, “If any woman +in the world can do a man’s thinking, I’m that +person.” A letter received subsequently, in answer +to my inquiry, from Sir Theodore Martin, +who was a lifelong friend of the novelist as well +as the painter, definitely established the fact that +the newly discovered portrait was a “study” for +the authorized portrait which Sir Frederic Burton +painted. No doubt the artist came to realize more +of the true womanliness of George Eliot’s character, +for he certainly softened the expression of +those determined-looking eyes.</p> + +<p>After we had discussed the picture at some +length, my new-found friend inquired about my +plans. I told him I meant to visit, so far as possible, +the scenes of George Eliot’s novels and to +photograph all the various places of interest. +“Of course you’ll go to Nuneaton?” he asked. +“Yes,” I replied, in a tone of assurance; “I expect +to visit Arbury Hall, the original of Cheverel +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page21" id="page21"></a>21</span> +Manor.” “I suppose, then, you are acquainted +with Mr. Newdegate,” said he, inquiringly. I had +to confess that I did not know the gentleman. +Mr. Colvin looked at me in surprise. “Why, you +can’t get in if you don’t know him. Arbury is +a private estate.” This remark struck me with +stunning force. I had supposed I could go anywhere. +The game was a new one to me, and here +at the very beginning appeared to be an insurmountable +barrier. Of course, I could not expect +to walk into private houses and grounds to +make photographs, and how was I to make the +acquaintance of these people? Mr. Colvin seemed +to read my thought and promptly solved the +problem. “I happen to know Mr. Newdegate +well. He was a classmate at Oxford. I’ll give +you a letter of introduction.—No, I’ll do better. +I’ll write and tell him you’re coming.”</p> + +<p>This courtesy, from a gentleman to whom I +was a complete stranger, was as welcome as it was +unexpected, and nearly caused me to forget the +original purpose of my call. But Mr. Colvin did +not forget. As I was about to leave, he asked if +I wished a copy of the Eliot portrait and added, +“Of course, you will have permission to copy the +Lewes picture”; and the interview ended with +his promise to have the official photographer +make me copies of both. I returned to the hotel to +report that the Lewes picture had been obtained +without even asking for it, and the next morning +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page22" id="page22"></a>22</span> +received a message from the owner of Arbury +Hall cordially inviting us to visit him.</p> + +<p>Of Arbury itself I knew little, but I had read, +somewhere, that the full-length portraits of Sir +Christopher Cheverel and his lady by Sir Joshua +Reynolds, which George Eliot describes as hanging +side by side in the great saloon of Cheverel +Manor, might still be seen at Arbury. I was, +therefore, eager to find them.</p> + +<p>We lost no time in proceeding to Nuneaton, +where we passed the night at the veritable tavern +which was the scene of Lawyer Dempster’s conviviality. +Readers of “Janet’s Repentance” will +recall that the great “man of deeds” addressed +the mob in the street from an upper window of +the “Red Lion,” protesting against the “temptation +to vice” involved in the proposition to +hold Sunday evening lectures in the church. He +brought the meeting to a close by calling for +“Three cheers for True Religion”; then retiring +with a party of friends to the parlor of the inn, +he caused “the most capacious punch-bowl” to +be brought out and continued the festivities until +after midnight, “when several friends of sound +religion were conveyed home with some difficulty, +one of them showing a dogged determination to +seat himself in the gutter.”</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:555px" src="images/img047.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE GRAND SALOON, ARBURY HALL</td></tr></table> + +<p>The old tavern, one of the few which still retain +the old-fashioned arched doorways through +which the coaches used to enter to change horses, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page23" id="page23"></a>23</span> +boasts of having entertained guests no less distinguished +than Oliver Cromwell and the immortal +Shakespeare. My wife said she was sure this was +true, for the house smelled as if it had not been +swept since Shakespeare’s time.</p> + +<p>In the morning we drove to Arbury Hall, the +private grounds of which make a beautifully +wooded park of three hundred acres. The mansion +is seen to the best advantage from the opposite +side of a little pool, where the surrounding +trees and shrubbery are pleasantly reflected in +the still water, where marsh-grass and rushes are +waving gently in the summer air, and the pond-lilies +spread their round green leaves to make +a richer, deeper background for their blossoms +of purest white. On a green knoll behind this +charming foreground stands a gray stone mansion +of rectangular shape, its sharp corners softened +with ivy and by the foliage at either end. +Three great gothic windows in the center, flanked +on both ends by slightly projecting wings, each +with a double-storied oriel, and a multitude of pinnacles +surmounting the walls on every side, give +a distinguished air to the building, as though it +were a part of some great cathedral. This Gothic +aspect was imparted to the mansion something +over a hundred years ago by Sir Roger Newdigate, +who was the prototype of George Eliot’s Sir +Christopher Cheverel, and the novelist describes +the place as if in the process of remodeling.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page24" id="page24"></a>24</span></p> + +<p>We were cordially welcomed by the present +owner, Mr. Newdegate, whose hospitality doubly +confirmed our first impressions of British courtesy. +After some preliminary conversation we +rose to begin a tour of inspection. Our host threw +open a door and instantly we were face to face +with the two full-length portraits of Sir Christopher +and Lady Cheverel, which for so long had +stood in my mind as the only known objects of +interest at Arbury. They are the work, by the +way, not of Sir Joshua Reynolds, but of George +Romney. George Eliot wrote from memory, probably +a full score of years after her last visit to +the place, and this is one of several slight mistakes. +These fine portraits, really representing +Sir Roger Newdigate and his lady, hang at the +end of a large and sumptuously furnished room, +with high vaulted ceiling in the richest Gothic +style, suggesting in the intricate delicacy of its +tracery the famous Chapel of Henry VII in Westminster +Abbey. The saloon, as the apartment is +called, is lighted chiefly by a large bay window, the +very one through which Sir Christopher stepped +into the room and found various members of his +household “examining the progress of the unfinished +ceiling.”</p> + +<p>Looking out through these windows, our host +noticed some gathering clouds and suggested a +drive through the park before the shower. Soon +his pony-cart was at the door, drawn by a dainty +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page25" id="page25"></a>25</span> +little horse appropriately named “Lightheart,” +for no animal with so fond a master could possibly +have a care in the world. We stopped for a few +minutes at Astley Castle, the “Knebley Abbey” +of George Eliot, an old but picturesque mansion, +once the residence of the famous Lord Seymour +and his ill-fated protégée, Lady Jane Grey. Then, +after a brief pause at the parson’s cottage, we +proceeded to Astley Church, a stone building +with a square tower such as one sees throughout +England.</p> + +<p>A flock of sheep pasturing in the inclosure +suggested George Eliot’s bucolic parson, the Reverend +Mr. Gilfil, who smoked his pipe with the +farmers and talked of “short-horns” and “sharrags” and +“yowes” during the week, and on +Sunday after Sunday repeated the same old sermons +to the ever-increasing satisfaction of his +parishioners. We photographed this ancient +temple on the inside as well as outside, for it +contains some curious frescoes representing the +saints holding ribbons with mottoes from which +one is expected to obtain excellent moral lessons.</p> + +<p>Our next objective was the birthplace of +George Eliot, a small cottage standing in one +corner of the park. We were driving rapidly +along one of the smooth roads leading to the place, +when the pony made a sudden turn to the right. +I was sitting on the rear seat, facing backward, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page26" id="page26"></a>26</span> +camera and tripod in hand. The cart went down +a steep embankment, then up again, and the next +instant I was sprawled ignominiously on the +ground, while near by lay the tripod, broken into +a hundred splinters. Scrambling to my feet, I +saw the pony-cart stuck tight in the mud of a +ditch not far away, my wife and our host still on +the seat, and nobody the worse for the accident +except poor Lightheart, who was almost overcome +with excitement. He had encountered some men +on the road leading a bull, and quickly resolved +not to face what, to one of his gentle breeding, +seemed a deadly peril.</p> + +<p>Leading the trembling Lightheart, we walked +back to the house, and in due season sat down to +luncheon beneath the high vaulted ceiling of that +splendid dining-room, which George Eliot thought +“looked less like a place to dine in than a piece +of space inclosed simply for the sake of beautiful +outline.” A cathedral-like aspect is given to the +room by the great Gothic windows which form +the distinguishing architectural feature of the +building. These open into an alcove, large enough +in itself, but small when compared with the main +part of the room. The ecclesiastical effect is +heightened by the rich Gothic ornamentation of +the canopies built over various niches in the walls, +or rather it would be, were it not for the fact +that the latter are filled with life-size statues in +white marble, of a distinctly classical character. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page27" id="page27"></a>27</span> +Opposite the windows is a mantel of generous +proportions, in pure white, the rich decorations of +which would not be inappropriate for some fine +altar-piece; but Cupid and Psyche, standing in +a carved niche above, instantly dissipate any +churchly thoughts, though they seem to be +having a heavenly time.</p> + +<p>After luncheon we sat for a time in the library, +in the left wing of the building, examining a first +folio Shakespeare, while our host busied himself +with various notes of introduction and other +memoranda for our benefit. As we sat in the +oriel window of this room,—the same in which +Sir Christopher received the Widow Hartopp,—we +noticed what appeared to be magazines, fans, +and other articles on the chairs and sofas. They +proved to be embroidered in the upholstery. It +is related that Sir Roger Newdigate—“Sir Christopher +Cheverel,” it will be remembered—used +to remonstrate with his lady for leaving her belongings +scattered over his library. She—good +woman—was not only obedient, but possessed +a sense of humor as well, for she promptly removed +the articles, but later took advantage of +her lord’s absence to leave their “counterfeit +presentment” in such permanent form that there +they have remained for more than a century.</p> + +<p>The opposite wing of the mansion contains +the drawing-room, adjoining the saloon. It is +lighted by an oriel window corresponding to that +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page28" id="page28"></a>28</span> +in the library. The walls are decorated with a +series of long narrow panels, united at the top by +intricate combinations of graceful pointed arches, +in keeping with the Gothic style of the whole +building. It was curious to note how well George +Eliot remembered it, for here was the full-length +portrait of Sir Anthony Cheverel “standing with +one arm akimbo,” exactly as described. How did +the novelist happen to remember that “arm +akimbo,” if, as is quite likely, she had not seen +the room for more than twenty years?</p> + +<p>It was in this room that Catarina sat down to +the harpsichord and poured out her emotions in +the deep rich tones of a fine contralto voice. The +harpsichord upon which the real Catarina played—her +name was Sally Shilton—is now upstairs +in the long gallery, and here we saw not only +that interesting instrument, but also the “queer +old family portraits ... of faded, pink-faced +ladies, with rudimentary features and highly +developed head-dresses—of gallant gentlemen, +with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed +beards.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Newdegate, with that fine spirit of helpfulness +that we had met in his friend Mr. Colvin, +informed us that he had invited the Reverend +Frederick R. Evans, Canon of Bedworth, a +nephew of George Eliot, to meet us at luncheon, +but an engagement had interfered. We were invited, +however, to visit the rectory at Bedworth, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page29" id="page29"></a>29</span> +and later did so, receiving a cordial welcome. +Mrs. Evans took great delight in showing various +mementoes of her husband’s distinguished +relative, including a lace cap worn by George +Eliot and a pipe that once belonged to the Countess +Czerlaski of “The Sad Fortune of the Reverend +Amos Barton.” I can still hear the ring +of her hearty laugh as she took us into the parlor, +and pointing to a painting on the wall, exclaimed, +“And here is Aunt Glegg!” There she was, sure +enough, with the “fuzzy front of curls” which +were always “economized” by not wearing them +until after 10.30 <span class="sc">A.M.</span> At this point the canon +suddenly asked, “Have you seen the stone table?” +I had been looking for this table. It is the one +where Mr. Casaubon sat when Dorothea found +him, apparently asleep, but really dead, as dramatically +told in “Middlemarch.” I had expected to +find it at Griff House, near Nuneaton, the home +of George Eliot’s girlhood, but the arbor at the +end of the Yew Tree Walk was empty. We were +quite pleased, therefore, when Mr. Evans took us +into his garden and there showed us the original +table of stone which the novelist had in mind +when she wrote the incident.</p> + +<p>Among the other things Mr. Newdegate had +busied himself in writing, while we sat in his +library, was a message to a friend in Nuneaton, +Dr. N——, who, he said, knew more about George +Eliot than any one else in the neighborhood. We +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page30" id="page30"></a>30</span> +accordingly stopped our little coupé at the doctor’s +door, as we drove back to town. He insisted +upon showing us the landmarks, and as there was +no room in our vehicle, mounted his bicycle and +told the driver to follow. In this way we were +able to identify nearly all the localities of “Amos +Barton” and “Janet’s Repentance.” He also +pointed out the schoolhouse where Mary Ann +Evans was a pupil in her eighth or ninth year. +We arrived just as school was dismissed and a +crowd of modern school children insisted upon +adding their bright rosy faces to our picture. +They looked so fresh and interesting that I made +no objection.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:530px" src="images/img057.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">A SCHOOL IN NUNEATON</td></tr></table> + +<p>On the next evening we were entertained by +the doctor and his wife at their home. A picture +of Nuneaton fifty years ago attracted my notice. +The doctor explained that the artist, when a +young girl, had known George Eliot’s father and +mother, and had been interested to paint various +scenes of the earlier stories. He advised us not +to call, because the old lady was very feeble. What +was my astonishment when, upon returning to +London a few weeks later, I found a letter from +this same good lady, expressing regret that she had +not met us, and stating that she was sending me +twenty-five of her water-color sketches. Among +them were sketches of John and Emma Gwyther, +the original Amos and Milly Barton, drawn from +life many years ago. Later she sent me a portrait +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page31" id="page31"></a>31</span> +of Nanny, the housemaid who drove away the +bogus countess. These dear people seemed determined +to make our quest a success.</p> + +<p>We now turned our attention to “Adam +Bede,” traveling into Staffordshire and Derbyshire, +where Robert Evans, the novelist’s father +and the prototype of Adam Bede, was born and +spent the years of his young manhood. Here +again we were assisted by good-natured English +people. The first was a station agent. Just as +the twilight was dissolving into a jet-black night +we alighted from the train at the little hamlet of +Norbury, with a steamer trunk, several pieces +of hand-baggage, a camera, and an assortment +of umbrellas. We expected to go to Ellastone, +two miles away, the original of Hayslope, the +home of Adam Bede, and the real home, a century +ago, of Robert Evans. After the train left, +the only person in sight was the station agent, +who looked with some surprise at the pile of +luggage.</p> + +<p>In reply to our question, he recommended +walking as the best and only way to reach Ellastone. +A stroll of two miles, over an unknown +and muddy road, in inky darkness, with two or +three hundred pounds of luggage to carry, did +not appeal to us, particularly as it was now beginning +to rain. We suggested a carriage, but +there was none. Hotel? Norbury boasted no +such conveniences. It began to look as though +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page32" id="page32"></a>32</span> +we might be obliged to camp out in the rain on +the station platform. But the good-natured agent, +whose day’s work was now done, and who was +anxious to go home to his supper, placed the +ticket-office, where there was a fire, at our disposal, +and a boy was found who was willing to +go to Ellastone on his bicycle and learn whether +the inn was open (the agent thought not), +and if so, whether any one there would send +a carriage for us. A long wait of an hour ensued, +during which we congratulated ourselves +that if we had to sleep on the floor of the ticket-office, +it would at least be dryer than the platform. +At last the boy returned with the news +that the inn was <i>not</i> open, but that a carriage +would be sent for us! After another seemingly +interminable delay, we finally heard the welcome +sound of wheels on the gravel. Our carriage had +arrived! It was a butcher’s cart. When the baggage +was thrown in, there was but one seat left—the +one beside the driver. Small chance for +two fairly good-sized passengers, but there was +only one solution. I climbed in and took the only +remaining seat, while my knees automatically +formed another one which my companion in +misery promptly appropriated, and away we went, +twisting and turning through a wet and muddy +lane, so dark that the only visible part of the +horse was his tail, the mud flying into our faces +from one direction and the rain from another, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page33" id="page33"></a>33</span> +but happy in the hope and expectation that if +the cart did not turn over and throw us into the +hedges, we should soon find a better place for a +night’s lodging than a country railway station.</p> + +<p>In due time we reached the inn, the very one +before which Mr. Casson, the landlord, stood and +invited Adam Bede to “step in an’ tek somethink.” +We were greeted with equal hospitality +by the landlord’s wife, who ushered us into the +“best parlor,” kindled a rousing fire in the grate +(English fires are not usually “rousing”), and +asked what we would have for supper. By the +time the mud had dried in nice hard lozenges on +our clothing, an excellent meal was on the table. +It disappeared with such promptness as to bring +tears of gratitude to the eyes of the cook—none +other than the hospitable landlady herself. We +then found ourselves settled for the night in a +large, airy, and particularly clean bedroom, the +best chamber in the house. “Oh, no, sir, the inn +is not open,” explained our good Samaritan, “but +we ’re always glad to make strangers comfortable.” +These words indicate the spirit of the +remark, which we comprehended because helped +by the good lady’s eyes, her smile, and her gestures. +I cannot set down the exact words for the +reasons set forth by Mr. Casson, George Eliot’s +landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, who said to +Adam: “They ’re cur’ous talkers i’ this country; +the gentry’s hard work to hunderstand ’em; I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page34" id="page34"></a>34</span> +was brought hup among the gentry, sir, an’ got +the turn o’ their tongue when I was a bye. Why, +what do you think the folks here says for ‘hev n’t +you’?—the gentry, you know, says, ‘hev n’t +you’—well, the people about here says, ‘hanna +yey.’ It’s what they call the dileck as is spoke +hereabout, sir.”</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:481px" src="images/img063.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE BROMLEY-DAVENPORT ARMS</td></tr></table> + +<p>It was curious to note, when we explored the +village the next morning, that Ellastone is even +now apparently just the same little hamlet it was +in the time of George Eliot’s father. I had never +expected to find the real Hayslope. I supposed, +of course, that it would be swallowed up by +some big manufacturing town. But here it was +exactly as represented—except that Adam Bede’s +cottage has been enlarged and repainted and a +few small houses now occupy the village green +where Dinah Morris preached. The parish church, +with its square stone tower and clock of orthodox +style, still remains the chief landmark of the village +as it was on the day in 1801 when Robert +Evans married his first wife, Harriet Poynton, a +servant in the Newdigate family, by whom the +young man was also employed as a carpenter. +Mr. Francis Newdigate, the great-grandfather of +our friend at Arbury, lived in Wootton Hall and +was the original of the old squire in “Adam +Bede.” This fine old estate was the Donnithorne +Chase of the novel, and therefore we found it +worthy of a visit. We found the fine old “hoaks” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page35" id="page35"></a>35</span> +there, which Mr. Casson mentioned to Adam, +and with them some equally fine elms and a profusion +of flowers, the latter tastefully arranged +about a series of broad stone terraces, stained +with age and partly covered with ivy, which gave +the place the dignified aspect of some ancient +palace of the nobility. Much to our regret the +owner was not at home, but the gardener maintained +the hitherto unbroken chain of courtesy +by showing us the beauties of the place from all +the best points of view.</p> + +<p>It has not been my intention to follow in detail +the events of our exploration of the country +of George Eliot, nor to describe the many scenes +of varied interest which were gradually unfolded +to us. I have sought rather to suggest what is +likely to happen to an amateur photographer in +search of pictures, and how such a quest becomes +a real pleasure when the people one meets manifest +a genuine interest and a spirit of friendly +helpfulness such as we experienced almost invariably.</p> + +<p class="center pt2">II</p> + +<p>There were some occasions upon which the +chain of courtesy, to which I have previously +referred, if not actually broken, received some +dangerous strains, when great care had to be +taken lest it snap asunder. There are surly butlers +and keepers in England as elsewhere, and we +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page36" id="page36"></a>36</span> +encountered one of the species in the Lake District. +I had called at the country residence of +Captain ——, a wealthy gentleman and a member +of Parliament. The place was celebrated for +its wonderful gardens and is described in one of +the novels of Mrs. Humphry Ward. His High-and-Mightiness, +the Butler, was suffering from a +severe attack of the Grouch, resulting in a stiffening +of the muscles of the back and shoulders. +He would do nothing except inform me that his +Master was “not at ’ome.” I could only leave a +message and say I would return. The next day +I was greeted by the same Resplendent Person, +his visage suffused with smiles and his spinal +column oscillating like an inverted pendulum. +“Captain —— is ex-<i>treme</i>-ly sorry he cawnt +meet you, sir. He’s <i>obliged</i> to be in Lunnun to-day, +sir, but he <i>towld</i> me to <i>sai</i> to you, sir, that +you’re to <i>taik</i> everythink in the ’ouse you <i>want</i>, +sir.” And then the Important One gave me full +possession while I photographed the most interesting +rooms, coming back occasionally to inquire +whether I wished him to move “hany harticles +of furniture,” afterward hunting up the +gardener, who in turn conducted me through the +sacred precincts of his own particular domain.</p> + +<p>At another time, also in connection with Mrs. +Ward’s novels, I came dangerously near to another +break. It was down in Surrey, whither we +had gone to visit the scenery of “Robert Elsmere.” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page37" id="page37"></a>37</span> +I knocked at the door of a little stone +cottage celebrated in the novel, and was shown +into the presence of a very old gentleman, who +looked suspiciously, first at my card, and then at +me, finally demanding to know what I wanted. +I explained that I was an American and had come +to take a picture of his house. He looked puzzled, +and after some further scrutiny of my face, my +clothes, my shoes, and my hat, said slowly, “Well, +you people in America must be crazy to come all +the way over here to photograph this house. I +have always said it’s the ugliest house in England, +owned by the ugliest landlord that ever +lived, and occupied by the ugliest tenant in the +parish.” Fortunately he was not possessed of the +Oriental delusion that a photograph causes some +of the virtue of an individual (or of a house) +to pass out into the picture, and upon further +reflection concluded that if a harmless lunatic +wanted to make a picture of his ugly old house, +it wouldn’t matter much after all.</p> + +<p>Not infrequently it happened that the keepers +in charge of certain places of public interest, +while desiring to be courteous themselves, were +bound by strict instructions from their superiors. +In the year when we were exploring the length +and breadth of England and Scotland in search +of the scenes of Sir Walter Scott’s writings, we +came one day to a famous hall, generously thrown +open to the public by the Duke of ——, who +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page38" id="page38"></a>38</span> +owned it. Here we found a rule that the use of +“stands” or tripods would not be permitted in +the building. Snap-shots with hand-cameras were +freely allowed, but these are always more or less +dependent on chance, and for interior views, requiring +a long time-exposure, are worthless. The +duke, apparently, did not mind poor pictures, but +was afraid of good ones. I felt that I really must +have views of the famous rooms of that house, +and we pleaded earnestly with the keeper. But +orders were orders and he remained inflexible, +but always courteous. He wanted to help, however, +and finally conducted me to a cottage near +by where I was presented to his immediate superior, +a good-looking and good-natured woman. +She, too, was willing and even anxious to oblige, +but the duke’s orders were imperative. Finally a +thought struck me. “You say stands are forbidden—would +it be an infraction of the rules if I +were to rest my camera on a table or chair?” +“Oh, no, indeed!” she quickly replied; then, +calling to the keeper, said, “John, I want you to +do everything you can for this gentleman.” John +seemed pleased. He first performed his duty to +the duke by locking up the dangerous tripod +where it could do no harm. Then taking charge of +us, he conducted us through the well-worn rooms, +meanwhile instructing his daughter to look after +other visitors and keep them out of our way. I +rested my camera on ancient chairs and tables so +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page39" id="page39"></a>39</span> +precious that the visitors were not permitted to +touch them, John kindly removing the protecting +ropes. We were taken to parts of the house and +garden not usually shown to visitors, so anxious +was our guide to assist in our purpose. At last we +came to a great ballroom, with richly carved woodwork, +but absolutely bare of furniture. Here the +forbidden “stand” was sorely needed. My companion +promptly came to the rescue. “I’ll be the +tripod,” said she. The hint was a good one, so, +resting the camera upon her shoulder, I soon had +my picture composed and in focus. Then, placing +the camera on a convenient window-ledge just +above my head, and making allowance for the +increased elevation, I gave the plate a long exposure +and the result was as good an “interior” +as I ever made.</p> + +<p>This is one of the best parts of the game—the +overcoming of obstacles. Without it, photography +would be poor fun, something like the +game of checkers I once played with a village +rustic. He swept off all my men in half a dozen +moves and then went away disgusted. I was too +easy. A picture that is not worth taking a little +trouble to get is usually not worth having. I +have even been known to take pictures I really +did not need, just because some unexpected difficulties +arose.</p> + +<p>Another part of the pursuit, which I have +always enjoyed, is the quiet amusement one can +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page40" id="page40"></a>40</span> +often derive from unexpected situations. One day +in London, when the streets were pretty well +crowded with Coronation visitors, we decided to +take a picture of the new Victoria Monument in +front of Buckingham Palace. I had taken the precaution +to secure a permit, so, without asking any +questions, proceeded to spread out my tripod and +compose my picture. Just as I inserted the plate-holder, +a “Bobby,” by which name the London +policeman is generally known, appeared, advancing +with an air that plainly said, “I’ll soon stop +<i>that</i> game, my fine fellow!” I expressed my surprise +and said I had a permit, at the same time +drawing the slide—an action which, not being +a photographer, he did not consider significant. +He looked scornfully at the permit, and said it +was not good after 10 <span class="sc">A.M.</span> Here, again, the assistant +photographer of our expedition came to +the rescue. She exercised the woman’s privilege +of asking “Why?” and “Bobby” moved from in +front of the camera to explain. “Click” went the +shutter, in went the slide, out came the plate-holder, +and into the case went the camera. “Bobby” +politely apologized for interfering, and expressed +his deep regret at being obliged to disappoint +us. I solemnly assured him that it was all right, +that he had only done his duty and that I did not +blame him in the least! But I neglected to inform +him that the Victoria Monument was already mine.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:480px" src="images/img071.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE BIRTHPLACE OF ROBERT BURNS</td></tr></table> + +<p>One of the pleasures of rambling with a camera +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page41" id="page41"></a>41</span> +is that it takes you to so many out-of-the-way +places, which you would not otherwise be likely +to visit. Dorothy Wordsworth in her “Recollections +of a Tour in Scotland” complains that all +the roads and taverns in Scotland are bad. Dorothy +ought to have known, for she and William +walked most of the way to save their bones from +dislocation by the jolting of their little cart, and +their limited resources compelled them to seek +the shelter and food of the poorest inns. The +modern tourist, on the contrary, will find excellent +roads and for the most part hotel accommodations +where he can be fairly comfortable. It +was something of a rarity, therefore, when, as +occasionally happened, we could find nothing but +an inn of the kind that flourished a century ago.</p> + +<p>On a very rainy morning in May we alighted +from the train at the little village of Ecclefechan, +known to the world only as the birthplace of +Thomas Carlyle. A farmer at the station, of whom +we inquired the location of a good hotel, answered +in a Scotch dialect so broad that we could not +compass it. By chance a carriage stood near by, +and as it afforded the only escape from the pouring +rain, we stepped in and trusted to luck. The +vehicle presently drew up before the door of a +very ancient hotel, from which the landlady, +whom we have ever since called “Mrs. Ecclefechan,” +came out to meet us. She was a frail +little woman, well along in years, with thin features, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page42" id="page42"></a>42</span> +sharp eyes, and a bald head, the last of +which she endeavored to conceal beneath a sort +of peaked black bonnet, tied with strings beneath +her chin, and suggesting the rather curious +spectacle of a bishop’s miter above a female face. +Her dress was looped up by pinning the bottom +of it around her waist, exposing a gray-and-white +striped petticoat that came down halfway between +the knees and the ankles, beneath which were a +pair of coarse woolen stockings and some heavy +shoes. A burlap apron completed the costume.</p> + +<p>Our hostess, who seemed to be proprietor, +clerk, porter, cook, chambermaid, waitress, barmaid, +and bootblack of the establishment, was +possessed of a kind heart, and she made us as +comfortable as her limited facilities would permit. +We were taken into the public-room, a space +about twelve feet square, with a small open fire +at one end, benches around the walls and a +table occupying nearly all the remaining space. +Across a narrow passage was the kitchen, where +the landlady baked her oatmeal cake and +served the regulars who came for a “penny’orth +o’ rum” and a bit of gossip. In front was another +tiny room where were served fastidious +guests who did not care to eat in the kitchen. +At noon we sat down to a luncheon, which might +have been worse, and at five were summoned into +the little room again. We thought it curious +to serve hard boiled eggs with afternoon tea, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page43" id="page43"></a>43</span> +thinking supper would soon be ready, declined +them. This proved a sad mistake for Americans +with big, healthy appetites, for the supper never +came. The eggs were it.</p> + +<p>We spent the evening in the public-room sitting +near the fire. One by one the villagers +dropped in, each man ordering his toddy and +spending an hour or two over a very small glass. +The evenings had been spent in that way in that +place for a hundred years. We seemed to be in +the atmosphere of “long ago.” A middle-aged +Scotchman, whose name was pronounced, very +broadly, “Fronk,” seemed to feel the responsibility +of entertaining us. He sang, very sweetly +I thought, a song by Lady Nairne, “The Auld +Hoose,” and recited with fine appreciation the +lines of Burns’s “Lament for James, Earl of +Glencairn,” “To a Mouse,” “To a Louse,” and +other poems. He related how Burns once helped +a friend out of a dilemma. Three women had +been buried side by side. The son of one of them +wished to put an inscription on his mother’s tombstone, +but the sexton could not remember which +grave was hers. Burns solved the problem by +suggesting these lines:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Here, or there, or thereaboots,</p> + <p class="i2">Lies the body of Janet Coutts,</p> +<p class="i05">But here, or there, or whereaboots,</p> + <p class="i2">Nane can tell</p> +<p class="i05">Till Janet rises and tells hersel.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page44" id="page44"></a>44</span></p> + +<p class="noind">Our landlady assured us that Fronk “had the +bluid o’ Douglas in his veins,” but he was now +only a poor “ne’er-do-weel,” picking up “a bit +shillin’” now and then. But he loved Bobbie +Burns.</p> + +<p>After the evening’s entertainment we were +shown to a tiny bedroom. Over the horrors upstairs +I must draw the veil of charity, only remarking +that if I ever go to Ecclefechan again I +shall seek out a nice soft pile of old scrap-iron +for a couch, rather than risk another night on +one of those beds.</p> + +<p>Of course we visited the birthplace of Carlyle, +which is now one of the “restored” show places, +and an interesting one. We also went to the +graveyard to see the tomb of Carlyle. Here we +were conducted by an old woman, nearly ninety +years of age, very poor and feeble, who had lived +in the village all her days. We asked if she had +ever seen Carlyle. “Oh, yes,” she replied, wearily, +“I hae seen ’im. He was a coo-rious mon.” +Then brightening she added, with a smile that +revealed her heart of hearts, “But we a’ <i>love</i> +Bobbie Burns.” And so we found it throughout +Scotland. The feeble old woman and the dissipated +wanderer shared with the intelligent and +cultivated classes a deep-seated and genuine love +for their own peasant poet, whom they invariably +called, affectionately, “Bobbie.”</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:511px; height:721px" src="images/img077.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE BURNS MONUMENT, AYRSHIRE</td></tr></table> + +<p>It was not long after this that we had occasion +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page45" id="page45"></a>45</span> +to visit the land of Burns, for a trip through +Scotland, even when undertaken primarily for +the sake of Scott landmarks, as ours was, would +scarcely be possible without many glimpses of the +places made famous by the elder and less cultured +but not less beloved poet. Scott’s intimacy with +Adam Ferguson, the son of the distinguished Dr. +Adam Ferguson, was the means of his introduction +to the best literary society in Edinburgh, and it +was at the house of the latter, that Scott, then a +boy of fifteen, met Burns for the first and only +time. He attracted the notice of the elder poet +by promptly naming the author of a poem which +Burns had quoted, when no one else in the room +could give the information. It is a far cry from +the aristocratic quarters of Dr. Ferguson to the +tavern in the Canongate where the “Crochallan +Fencibles” used to meet, but here the lines +crossed again, for to this resort for convivial +souls Burns came to enjoy the bacchanalian revels +known as “High Jinks,” in the same way +as did Andrew Crosbie, the original of Scott’s +fictitious Paulus Pleydell.</p> + +<p>We went to the old town of Dumfries to see a +number of places described by Scott in “Guy +Mannering,” “Redgauntlet,” and other novels, +and found ourselves in the very heart of the +Burns country. In the center of High Street +stands the old Midsteeple in one room of which +the original Effie Deans, whose real name was +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page46" id="page46"></a>46</span> +Isabel Walker, was tried for child murder. Here +the real Jeanie Deans refused to tell a lie to save +her sister’s life, afterward walking to London to +secure her pardon. Almost around the corner is +the house where Burns’s Jean lived, and where +“Bobbie” died. In the same town is the churchyard +of St. Michaels where Burns lies buried in +a handsome “muselum,” as one of the natives +informed us.</p> + +<p>Out on the road toward the old church of +Kirkpatrick Irongray, where Scott erected a monument +to Helen Walker, the prototype of Jeanie +Deans, is a small remnant of the house once occupied +by that heroine. In the same general +direction but a little farther to the north, on the +banks of the river Nith, is Ellisland, where Burns +attempted to manage a farm, attend to the duties +of an excise officer, and write poetry, all at +the same time. Out of the last came “Tam +o’ Shanter,” but the other two “attempts” were +failures.</p> + +<p>We traveled down to Ayrshire to see the coast +of Carrick and what is left of the ancestral home +of Robert Bruce, where the Scottish hero landed, +with the guidance of supernatural fires, as graphically +related by Scott in “The Lord of the Isles.” +Here again we were in Burns’s own country. In +the city of Ayr we saw the “Twa Brigs” and +the very tavern which Tam o’ Shanter may be +supposed to have frequented,—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page47" id="page47"></a>47</span></p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,</p> +<p class="i05">His ancient, trusty, drouthy cronie.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">Of course we drove to Burns’s birthplace, about +three miles to the south, a long, narrow cottage +with a thatched roof, one end of which was +dwelling-house and the other end stable. It was +built by the poet’s father, with his own hands, +and when Robert was born there in the winter +of 1759 probably looked a great deal less respectable +than it does now.</p> + +<p>Continuing southward, we stopped at Alloway +Kirk for a view of the old church where Tam +o’ Shanter first saw the midnight dancing of the +witches and started on his famous ride. The +keeper felt personally aggrieved because I preferred +to utilize my limited time to make a picture +of the church, rather than listen to his repetition +of a tale which I already knew by heart. We +traveled over Tam’s route and soon had a fine +view of the old “Brig o’ Doon,” where Tam at +length escaped the witches at the expense of his +poor nag’s tail. I have made few pictures that +pleased me more than that of the “auld brig,” +which I was able to get by placing my camera on +the new bridge near by. Here the memory of +Burns is again accentuated by a graceful memorial, +in the form of a Grecian temple and very +similar to the one on Calton Hill, Edinburgh, +but far more beautifully situated. It is surrounded +by a garden of well-trimmed yews, shrubbery of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page48" id="page48"></a>48</span> +various kinds, and a wealth of brightly blooming +flowers, and best of all, stands well above the +“banks and braes o’ bonnie Doon,” where the +poet himself would have been happy to stand and +look upon his beloved river.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:480px" src="images/img083.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE BRIG O’ DOON, AYRSHIRE</td></tr></table> + +<p>Whatever may have been “Bobbie’s” faults, +and, poor fellow, they were many and grievous, +there is nothing more beautiful than the mantle +of love beneath which they have been concealed +and forgotten. He touched the hearts of his +countrymen as none other ever did, and out of +the sordid earth of his shortcomings have sprung +beautiful flowers, laid out along well-ordered and +graceful paths, a delight and solace to his fellow-men, +like the brilliant blossoms that brighten the +lovely garden at the base of his memorial overlooking +the Doon.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page49" id="page49"></a>49</span></p> + +<p class="center fo">III<br /> + +A DAY IN WORDSWORTH’S COUNTRY</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page50" id="page50"></a>50</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page51" id="page51"></a>51</span></p> + +<p class="chap center">III<br /> + +A DAY IN WORDSWORTH’S COUNTRY</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">Our</span> arrival on Saturday evening at the village +of Windermere was like the sudden +and unexpected realization of a dream. On many +a winter night, under the light of our library +lamp at home, we had talked of that vague, distant +“sometime” when we should visit the English +Lakes. And now—by what curious combination +of circumstances we did not try to analyze—here +we were with the whole beautiful panorama, +in all its evening splendors, spread out before +us. Through our minds passed, as in a vision, the +whole company of poets who are inseparably associated +with these scenes: Wordsworth, whose +abiding influence upon the spirit of poetry will +endure as long as the mountains and vales which +taught him to love and reverence nature; Southey, +who, himself without the appreciation of nature, +was the first to recognize Wordsworth’s +rare power of interpreting her true meaning; +Coleridge, the most intimate friend of the +greater poet, whom Wordsworth declared to be +the most wonderful man he ever met, and who, +in spite of those shortcomings which caused +his life to end in worldly failure, nevertheless +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page52" id="page52"></a>52</span> +possessed a native eloquence and alluring personality.</p> + +<p>Nor should we forget De Quincey, who spent +twenty of the happiest years of his life at Dove +Cottage, as the successor of the Wordsworths. +His most intimate companion was the famous +Professor Wilson of Edinburgh, known to all +readers of “Blackwood’s Magazine” as “Christopher +North.” Attracted partly by the beauty of +the Lake Country, but more by his desire to cultivate +the intimacy of Wordsworth, whose genius +he greatly admired, Professor Wilson bought a +pretty place in Cumberland, where he lived for +several years. He enjoyed the companionship of +the friendly group of poets, but, we are told, occasionally +sought a different kind of pleasure in +measuring his strength with some of the native +wrestlers, one of the most famous of whom has +testified that he found him “a very bad un to +lick.”</p> + +<p>At a later time, Dr. Arnold of Rugby found +himself drawn to the Lakes by the same double +attraction, and built the charming cottage at Fox +How on the River Rothay, where his youngest +daughter still resides. He wrote in 1832: “Our +intercourse with the Wordsworths was one of the +brightest spots of all; nothing could exceed their +friendliness, and my almost daily walks with him +were things not to be forgotten.”</p> + +<p>It was not alone the beauty of the Westmoreland +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page53" id="page53"></a>53</span> +scenery that had attracted this group of +famous men. There are lovelier lakes in Scotland +and more majestic mountains in Switzerland. +But Wordsworth was here, in the midst of those +charming displays of Nature in her most cheerful +as well as most soothing moods. Nature’s +best interpreter and Nature herself could be seen +together. For a hundred years this same influence +has continued to exercise its spell upon travelers, +and we are bound to recognize the fact that +this, and nothing else, had drawn us away from our +prearranged path, that we might enjoy the pleasure +of a Sunday in the country of Wordsworth.</p> + +<p>The morning dawned, bright and beautiful, +suggesting that splendid day when Wordsworth, +then a youth of eighteen, found himself possessed +of an irresistible desire to devote his life to poetry:</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i10">“Magnificent</p> +<p>The morning rose, in memorable pomp,</p> +<p>Glorious as e’er I had beheld—in front,</p> +<p>The sea lay laughing at a distance; near,</p> +<p>The solid mountains shone, bright as the clouds,</p> +<p>Grain-tinctured, drenched in empyrean light;</p> +<p>And in the meadows and the lower grounds</p> +<p>Was all the sweetness of a common dawn—</p> +<p>Dews, vapors, and the melody of birds,</p> +<p>And laborers going forth to till the fields.</p> +<p>Ah! need I say, dear Friend, that to the brim</p> +<p>My heart was full; I made no vows, but vows</p> +<p>Were then made for me; bond unknown to me</p> +<p>Was given, that I should be, else sinning greatly,</p> +<p>A dedicated spirit.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page54" id="page54"></a>54</span></p> + +<p>We resolved that the whole of this beautiful +day should be devoted to catching something of +that indefinable spirit of the Westmoreland hills +which had made a poet of Wordsworth, and +through him taught the love of Nature to countless +thousands. A few steps took us away from +the town, the inn, and the other tourists, into a +quiet woodland path leading toward the lake, at +the end of which we stood</p> + +<p class="center ptb1 f90">“On long Winander’s eastern shore.”</p> + +<p class="noind">“Winander” is the old form of Windermere. +The lake was the scene of many of Wordsworth’s +boyhood experiences.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i6">“When summer came,</p> +<p>Our pastime was, on bright half-holidays,</p> +<p>To sweep along the plain of Windermere</p> +<p>With rival oars; and the selected bourne</p> +<p>Was now an Island musical with birds</p> +<p>That sang and ceased not; now a Sister Isle</p> +<p>Beneath the oaks’ umbrageous covert, sown</p> +<p>With lilies of the valley like a field;</p> +<p>And now a third small Island, where survived</p> +<p>In solitude the ruins of a shrine</p> +<p>Once to Our Lady dedicate, and served</p> +<p>Daily with chaunted rites. In such a race,</p> +<p>So ended, disappointment could be none,</p> +<p>Uneasiness, or pain, or jealousy:</p> +<p>We rested in the shade, all pleased alike,</p> +<p>Conquered and conqueror. Thus the pride of strength,</p> +<p>And the vainglory of superior skill,</p> +<p>Were tempered.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page55" id="page55"></a>55</span></p> + +<p>Wordsworth’s boyhood was probably very +much like that of other boys. He tells us that he +was “stiff, moody, and of a violent temper”—so +much so that he went up into his grandfather’s +attic one day, while under the resentment of +some indignity, determined to destroy himself. +But his heart failed. On another occasion he relates +that while at his grandfather’s house in +Penrith, he and his eldest brother Richard were +whipping tops in the large drawing-room. “The +walls were hung round with family pictures, and +I said to my brother, ‘Dare you strike your whip +through that old lady’s petticoat?’ He replied, +’No, I won’t.’ ‘Then,’ said I, ‘here goes!’ and +I struck my lash through her hooped petticoat; +for which, no doubt, though I have forgotten it, +I was properly punished. But, possibly from some +want of judgment in the punishments inflicted, +I had become perverse and obstinate in defying +chastisement, and rather proud of it than otherwise.” +Lowell remarks upon this incident: “Just +so do we find him afterward striking his defiant +lash through the hooped petticoat of the artificial +style of poetry, and proudly unsubdued by +the punishment of the Reviewers.” When scarcely +ten years old, it was his joy</p> + +<p class="center ptb1 f90">“To range the open heights where woodcocks run.”</p> + +<p class="noind">He would spend half the night “scudding away +from snare to snare,” sometimes yielding to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page56" id="page56"></a>56</span> +temptation to take the birds caught in the snare of +some other lad. He felt the average boy’s terror +inspired by a guilty conscience, for he says:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i3">“And when the deed was done,</p> +<p>I heard among the solitary hills</p> +<p>Low breathings coming after me, and sounds</p> +<p>Of undistinguishable motion, steps</p> +<p>Almost as silent as the turf they trod.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">Across the lake from where we stood, and over +beyond the hills on the other side, is the quaint +old town of Hawkshead, where Wordsworth was +sent to school at the age of nine years. The little +schoolhouse may still be seen, but it is of small +import. The real scenes of Wordsworth’s early +education were the woods and vales, the solitary +cliffs, the rocks and pools, and the Lake of +Esthwaite, five miles round, which he was fond +of encircling in his early morning walks, that he +might sit</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Alone upon some jutting eminence,</p> +<p class="i05">At the first gleam of dawn-light, when the Vale,</p> +<p class="i05">Yet slumbering, lay in utter solitude.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">In winter-time “a noisy crew” made merry upon +the icy surface of the lake.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i5">“All shod with steel,</p> +<p>We hissed along the polished ice in games</p> +<p>Confederate, imitative of the chase</p> +<p>And woodland pleasures,—the resounding horn,</p> +<p>The pack loud chiming, and the hunted hare.</p> +<p>So through the darkness and the cold we flew,</p> +<p>And not a voice was idle.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page57" id="page57"></a>57</span></p> + +<p>Nor were the pleasures of social life lacking. +Dances, feasts, public revelry, and</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i10">“A swarm</p> +<p>Of heady schemes, jostling each other,”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">all seemed for a time to conspire to lure his mind +away from the paths of “books and nature,” +which he would have preferred. But, curiously +enough, it was after one of these nights of revelry +that, on his way home, Wordsworth was so +much impressed with the beauties of the dawn +that he felt the impulse, previously mentioned, +to devote himself to poetry.</p> + +<p>No other poet ever gave such an account of the +development of his own mind as Wordsworth +gives in the “Prelude.” And while he recounts +enough incidents like the snaring of woodcock, +the fishing for trout in the quiet pools and the +cascades of the mountain brooks, the flying of +kites on the hilltops, the nutting expeditions, the +rowing on the lake, and in the winter-time the +skating and dancing, to convince us that he was +really a boy, yet he continually shows that beneath +it all there was a deeper feeling—a prophecy +of the man who was even then developing. +No ordinary boy would have been conscious of +“a sense of pain” at beholding the mutilated +hazel boughs which he had broken in his search +for nuts. No ordinary lad of ten would be +able to hold</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page58" id="page58"></a>58</span></p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i2">“Unconscious intercourse with beauty</p> +<p>Old as creation, drinking in a pure</p> +<p>Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths</p> +<p>Of curling mist, or from the level plain</p> +<p>Of waters colored by impending clouds.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">Even at that early age, in the midst of all his +pleasures he felt</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Gleams like the flashing of a shield;—the earth</p> +<p class="i05">And common face of Nature spake to me</p> +<p class="i05">Rememberable things.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>The secret of Wordsworth’s power lay in the +fact that, throughout a long life, nature was to +him a vital, living Presence—one capable of uplifting +mankind to loftier aspirations, of teaching +noble truths, and at the same time providing +tranquillity and rest to the soul. As a boy he had +felt for nature</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i6">“A feeling and a love</p> +<p>That had no need of a remoter charm.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">But manhood brought a deeper joy.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i5">“For I have learned</p> +<p>To look on nature, not as in the hour</p> +<p>Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes</p> +<p>The still, sad music of humanity,</p> +<p>Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power</p> +<p>To chasten and subdue. And I have felt</p> +<p>A presence that disturbs me with the joy</p> +<p>Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of</p> +<p>Something far more deeply interfused,</p> +<p>Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,</p> +<p>And the round ocean, and the living air,</p> +<p>And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page59" id="page59"></a>59</span></p> +<p>A motion and a spirit, that impels</p> +<p>All thinking things, all objects of all thought,</p> +<p>And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still</p> +<p>A lover of the meadows and the woods</p> +<p>And mountains, and of all that we behold</p> +<p>From this green earth; of all the mighty world</p> +<p>Of eye and ear—both what they half create,</p> +<p>And what perceive; well pleased to recognize</p> +<p>In nature and the language of the sense,</p> +<p>The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,</p> +<p>The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul</p> +<p>Of all my moral being.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>In these noble lines we reach the very summit +of Wordsworth’s intellectual power and poetic +genius.</p> + +<p>We must now retrace our steps to the village +and find a carriage to take us on our journey. +For we are not like our English friends, who are +good walkers, nor do we care to emulate the pedestrian +attainments of our poet, who, De Quincey +thought, must have traversed a distance of one +hundred and seventy-five thousand to one hundred +and eighty thousand English miles. So a +comfortable landau takes us on our way, skirting +the upper margin of the lake, then winding +along the river Brathay, pausing for a moment +to view the charming little cascade of Skelwith +Force, then on again until Red Bank is reached, +overlooking the vale of Grasmere. The first +glimpse of this placid little lake, “with its one +green island,” its shores well fringed with the +budding foliage of spring, the gently undulating +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page60" id="page60"></a>60</span> +hills forming as it were a graceful frame to the +mirror of the waters, in which the reflection of +the blue sky and fleecy white clouds seemed even +more beautiful than their original overhead—the +first glimpse could scarcely fail to arouse the +emotions of the most apathetic and stir up a +poetic feeling in the most unpoetic of natures.</p> + +<p>To a mind like Wordsworth’s, such a scene +was an inspiration, a revelation of Nature’s charms +such as could arouse an almost ecstatic enthusiasm +in the heart of one who, all his life, had +lived amid scenes of beauty and possessed the eyes +to see them. He came here first “a roving schoolboy,” +on a “golden summer holiday,” and even +then said, with a sigh,—</p> + +<p class="center ptb1 f90">“What happy fortune were it here to live!”</p> + +<p class="noind">He had no thought, nor even hope, that he would +ever realize such good fortune, but only</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“A fancy in the heart of what might be</p> +<p class="i05">The lot of others never could be his.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:482px" src="images/img097.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">GRASMERE LAKE</td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">Possibly he may have stood on this very knoll +where we were enjoying our first view:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“The station whence we looked was soft and green,</p> +<p class="i05">Not giddy, yet aërial, with a depth</p> +<p class="i05">Of vale below, a height of hills above.</p> +<p class="i05">For rest of body perfect was the spot,</p> +<p class="i05">All that luxurious nature could desire;</p> +<p class="i05">But stirring to the spirit; who could gaze</p> +<p class="i05">And not feel motions there?”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page61" id="page61"></a>61</span></p> + +<p>Many years later, in the summer of 1799, +Wordsworth and Coleridge were walking together +over the hills and valleys of Westmoreland and +Cumberland, hoping to find, each for himself, a +home where they might dwell as neighbors. Since +receiving his degree at Cambridge in 1791 Wordsworth +had wandered about in a somewhat aimless +way, living for a time in London and in France, +visiting Germany, and finally attempting to find +a home in the south of England. A small legacy +left him in 1795 had given a feeling of independence, +and his one consuming desire at this time +was to establish a home where his beloved sister +Dorothy might be with him and he could devote +his entire time to poetry.</p> + +<p>A little cottage in a quiet spot just outside +the village of Grasmere attracted his eye. It had +been a public-house, and bore the sign “The +Dove and the Olive Bough.” He called it “Dove +Cottage,” and for eight years it became his home. +We found the custodian, a little old lady, in a +penny shop across the street, and she was glad to +show us through the tiny, low-ceilinged rooms. +The cottage looks best from the little garden in +the rear. The ivy and the roses soften all the +harsh angles of the eaves and convert even the +chimney-pots into things of beauty. A tangled +mass of foliage covers the small back portico and +makes a shady nook, where a little bench is invitingly +placed. A few yards up the garden walk, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page62" id="page62"></a>62</span> +over stone steps put in place by Wordsworth and +Hartley Coleridge, is the rocky well, or spring, +where the poet placed “bright gowan and marsh +marigold” brought from the borders of the lake. +At the farthest end is the little summer-house, the +poet’s favorite retreat. How well he loved this +garden is shown in the poem written when he +left Grasmere to bring home his bride in 1802:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Sweet garden orchard, eminently fair,</p> +<p class="i05">The loveliest spot that man hath ever found.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>Seating ourselves in this garden, we tried to +think of the three interesting personages who had +made the place their home. Coleridge said, “His +is the happiest family I ever saw.” They had one +common object—to work together to develop a +rare poetic gift. They were poor, for Wordsworth +had only the income of a very small legacy, and +the public had not yet come to recognize his +genius; the returns from his literary work were +therefore extremely meager. They got along with +frugal living and poor clothing, but as they made +no pretensions they were never ashamed of their +poverty. Visitors came and went, and at the cost +of many little sacrifices were hospitably entertained.</p> + +<p>Perhaps the world will never know how much +Wordsworth really owed to the two women of his +household. They lived together with no sign of +jealousy or distrust. The husband and brother +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page63" id="page63"></a>63</span> +was the object of their untiring and sympathetic +devotion. They walked with him, read with him, +cared for him. Mrs. Wordsworth seems to have +been a plain country-woman of simple manners, +yet possessed of a graciousness and tact which +made everything in the household go smoothly. +De Quincey declared that, “without being handsome +or even comely,” she exercised “all the +practical fascination of beauty, through the mere +compensating charms of sweetness all but angelic, +of simplicity the most entire, womanly self-respect +and purity of heart speaking through all her +looks, acts, and movements.” Wordsworth was +never more sincere than when he sang,—</p> + +<p class="center ptb1 f90">“She was a phantom of delight,”</p> + +<p class="noind">and closed the poem with that splendid tribute +to a most excellent wife:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“A perfect woman, nobly planned,</p> +<p class="i05">To warn, to comfort, and command;</p> +<p class="i05">And yet a spirit still, and bright</p> +<p class="i05">With something of angelic light.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>He recognized her unusual poetic instinct by +giving her full credit for the best two lines in +one of his most beautiful poems, “The Daffodils”:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“They flash upon that inward eye</p> +<p class="i05">Which is the bliss of solitude.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>To the other member of that household, his +sister Dorothy, Wordsworth gave from early boyhood +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page64" id="page64"></a>64</span> +the full measure of his affection. She was +his constant companion in his walks, at all hours +and in all kinds of weather. She cheerfully performed +the irksome task of writing out his verses +from dictation. Her observations of nature were +as keen as his, and the poet was indebted to +Dorothy’s notebook for many a good suggestion. +He has been most generous in his acknowledgments +of his obligation to her:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“She gave me eyes, she gave me ears,</p> +<p class="i05">And humble cares, and delicate fears,</p> + +<p class="i1" style="letter-spacing: 2em;">*******</p> + +<p class="i1">And love, and thought, and joy.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>In the early days when he was overwhelmed +with adverse criticism and brought almost to the +verge of despair, it was Dorothy’s helping hand +that brought him back to his own.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“She whispered still that brightness would return;</p> +<p class="i05">She, in the midst of all, preserved me still</p> +<p class="i05">A poet, made me seek beneath that name,</p> +<p class="i05">And that alone, my office upon earth.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:479px" src="images/img103.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">DOVE COTTAGE, GRASMERE</td></tr></table> + +<p>But it is De Quincey who gives the best statement +of the world’s obligation to Dorothy. Said +he:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Whereas the intellect of Wordsworth was, by its +original tendency, too stern, too austere, too much enamored +of an ascetic harsh sublimity, she it was—the +lady who paced by his side continually through sylvan +and mountain tracks, in Highland glens, and in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page65" id="page65"></a>65</span> +dim recesses of German charcoal-burners—that first +couched his eye to the sense of beauty, humanized him +by the gentler charities, and engrafted, with her delicate +female touch, those graces upon the ruder growths +of nature which have since clothed the forest of his +genius with a foliage corresponding in loveliness and +beauty to the strength of its boughs and the massiveness +of its trunks.</p> +</div> + +<p>Nearly all of Wordsworth’s best poetry was +written in this little cottage, or, to speak more +accurately, it was composed while he was living +here. For it was never his way to write verses +while seated at a desk, pen in hand. His study +was out of doors. He could compose a long poem +while walking, and remember it all afterward +when ready to dictate. Thousands of verses, he +said, were composed on the banks of the brook +running through Easedale, just north of Grasmere +Lake. The tall figure of the poet was a +familiar sight to farmers for miles around, as he +paced the woods or mountain paths, his head +bent down, and his lips moving with audible if +not distinguishable sounds. One of his neighbors +has left on record an impression of how he +seemed when he was “making a poem.”</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>He would set his head a bit forward, and put his +hands behind his back. And then he would start in +bumming, and it was bum, bum, bum, stop; and then +he’d set down, and git a bit o’ paper out, and write a +bit. However, his lips were always goan’ whoole time +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page66" id="page66"></a>66</span> +he was upon gress<a name="fa1" id="fa1" href="#ft1"><span class="sp">1</span></a> walk. He was a kind mon, there’s +no two words about that; and if any one was sick i’ the +place, he wad be off to see til’ ’em.</p> +</div> + +<p>In personal appearance—about which, by the +way, he cared little—he was not unlike the dalesmen +about him. Nearly six feet high, he looked +strong and hardy enough to be a farmer himself. +Carlyle speaks of him as “businesslike, sedately +confident, no discourtesy, yet no anxiety about +being courteous; a fine wholesome rusticity, fresh +as his mountain breezes, sat well on the stalwart +veteran and on all he said or did.”</p> + +<p>On our return from Grasmere we took the road +along the north shore of Rydal Water—a small +lake with all the characteristic beauty of this +fascinating region, and yet not so different from +hundreds of others that it would ever attract +more than passing notice. But the name of Rydal +is linked with that of Grasmere, and the two are +visited by thousands of tourists year after year. +For fifty years the shores of these two lakes and +the hills and valleys surrounding them were the +scenes of Wordsworth’s daily walks. As we passed +we heard the cuckoo—its mysterious sound +seeming to come across the lake—and as our +own thoughts were on Wordsworth, “the wandering +Voice” seemed appropriate. If we could +have heard the skylark at that moment, our sense +of satisfaction would have been quite complete, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page67" id="page67"></a>67</span> +and no doubt we should have cried out, with the +poet,—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Up with me! up with me into the clouds!</p> + <p class="i2">For thy song, Lark, is strong;</p> +<p class="i05">Up with me, up with me into the clouds!</p> + <p class="i2">Singing, singing,</p> +<p class="i05">With clouds and sky about thee ringing,</p> + <p class="i2">Lift me, guide me till I find</p> +<p class="i05">That spot which seems so to thy mind.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>Just north of the eastern end of the lake, beneath +the shadow of Nab Scar, is Rydal Mount, +where the poet came to live in 1813, remaining +until his death, thirty-seven years later. Increasing +prosperity enabled him to take this far more +pretentious house. It stands on a hill, a little off +the main road, and quite out of sight of the +tourists who pass through in coaches and <i>chars-à-bancs</i>. +The drivers usually jerk their thumbs +in the general direction and say, “There is +Rydal Mount,” etc., and the tourists, who have +seen only a farmhouse—not Wordsworth’s—are +left to imagine that they have seen the house +of the poet.</p> + +<p>It is an old house, but some recent changes in +doors and windows give it a more modern aspect. +The unaltered portion is thickly covered with +ivy. The ground in front is well planted with a +profusion of rhododendrons. A very old stone +stairway descends from the plaza in front of the +house to a kind of mound or rather a double +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page68" id="page68"></a>68</span> +mound, the smaller resting upon a larger one. +From this point the house is seen to the best advantage. +In the opposite direction is a landscape +of rare natural beauty. Far away in the distance +lies Lake Windermere glistening like a shield of +polished silver, while on the left Wansfell and on +the right Nab Scar stand guard over the valley. +In the foreground the spire of the little church +of Rydal peeps out over the trees.</p> + +<p>At the right of the house is a long terrace +which formed one of Wordsworth’s favorite walks, +where he composed thousands of verses. From +here one may see both Windermere and Rydal +Water, with mountains in the distance. Passing +through the garden we came to a gate leading +to Dora’s Field. Here is the little pool where +Wordsworth and Dora put the little goldfishes, +that they might enjoy a greater liberty. Here is +the stone which Wordsworth saved from destruction +by the builders of a stone wall. A little +flight of stone steps leads down to another boulder +containing the following inscription, carved +by the poet’s own hand:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>Wouldst thou be gathered to Christ’s chosen flock</p> +<p>Shun the broad way too easily explored</p> +<p>And let thy path be hewn out of the rock</p> +<p>The living Rock of God’s eternal WORD</p> +<p style="margin-left: 14em;">1838</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:479px" src="images/img109.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">WORDSWORTH’S WELL</td></tr></table> + +<p>Dora’s field is thickly covered in spring-time +with the beautiful golden daffodils, planted by +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page69" id="page69"></a>69</span> +the poet himself. No sight is more fascinating at +this season than a field of these bright yellow +flowers. We Americans, who only see them +planted in gardens, cannot realize what daffodils +mean to the English eye, unless we chance to visit +England during the early spring. What Wordsworth +called a “crowd” of daffodils, growing +in thick profusion along the margin of a lake, +beneath the trees, ten thousand to be seen at a +glance, all nodding their golden heads beside the +dancing and foaming waves, is a sight well worth +seeing.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“The waves beside them danced; but they</p> +<p class="i05">Outdid the sparkling waves in glee;</p> +<p class="i05">A poet could not but be gay</p> +<p class="i05">In such a jocund company:</p> +<p class="i05">I gazed—and gazed—but little thought</p> +<p class="i05">What wealth the show to me had brought:</p> + +<p class="i05 s">For oft, when on my couch I lie</p> +<p class="i05">In vacant or in pensive mood,</p> +<p class="i05">They flash upon that inward eye</p> +<p class="i05">Which is the bliss of solitude:</p> +<p class="i05">And then my heart with pleasure fills,</p> +<p class="i05">And dances with the daffodils.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>But now the time had come to return to Windermere, +and reluctantly we turned our backs +upon these scenes, so full of pleasant memories. +The day, however, was not yet done, for after +supper we climbed to the top of Orrest-Head, a +little hill behind the village. No more charming +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page70" id="page70"></a>70</span> +spot could have been chosen in which to spend +the closing hours of this peaceful day. Far below +lay the quiet waters of the lake, only glimpses of +its long and narrow surface appearing here and +there, like “burnished mirrors” set by Nature +for the sole purpose of reflecting a magnificent +golden sky. It was “an evening of extraordinary, +splendor,” like that one which Wordsworth saw +from Rydal Mount:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“No sound is uttered,—but a deep</p> +<p class="i05">And solemn harmony pervades</p> +<p class="i05">The hollow vale from steep to steep,</p> +<p class="i05">And penetrates the glades.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>As we stood watching the splendid sunset, the +village church rang out its chimes, as if to accompany +the inspiring scene with sweet and holy +music.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“How pleasant, when the sun declines, to view</p> +<p class="i05">The spacious landscape change in form and hue!</p> +<p class="i05">Here vanish, as in mist, before a flood</p> +<p class="i05">Of bright obscurity, hill, lawn, and wood;</p> +<p class="i05">Their objects, by the searching beams betrayed,</p> +<p class="i05">Come forth and here retire in purple shade;</p> +<p class="i05">Even the white stems of birch, the cottage white,</p> +<p class="i05">Soften their glare before the mellow light.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>The shadows which had been slowly falling +upon the scene had now so far enveloped the +mountain-side that the narrow roadways and +stone fences marking the boundaries of the fields +were barely visible. Suddenly in the distance we +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page71" id="page71"></a>71</span> +saw a moving object, a mere speck upon the hillside. +It darted first in one direction and then +another, like some frightened being uncertain +which way to turn. Then a darker speck appeared, +and with rapid movement circled to the +rear of the whiter one, the latter moving on +ahead. Another sudden movement, and a second +white speck appeared in another spot. The black +speck as quickly moved to the rear of this second +bit of white, driving it in the same direction as +the first. The white specks then began to seem +more numerous. We tried to count—one—two—three—ten—a +dozen—perhaps even twenty. +There was but one black speck, and he seemed to +be the master of all the others, for, darting here +and there after the stragglers, he kept them all +together. He drove them along the narrow road. +Then, coming to an opening in the fence, he +hurried along to the front of the procession; +then, facing about, deftly turned the whole flock +through the gate into a large field. Through this +pasture, with the skill of a military leader, he +marshaled his troop, rushing backwards and forwards, +allowing none to fall behind nor to stray +away from the proper path, finally bringing them +up in a compact body to another opening in the +opposite end of the field. On he went, driving +his small battalion along the road, then at right +angles into another road, until the whole flock +of sheep and the little black dog who commanded +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page72" id="page72"></a>72</span> +them disappeared for the night among the out-buildings +of a far distant farm.</p> + +<p>The twilight had almost gone, and in the +growing darkness we retraced our steps to the +village, well content that, through communion +with the Spirit of Wordsworth in the presence +of that “mighty Being” who to him was the +great Teacher and Inspirer of mankind, our own +love of nature had been reawakened, and our +time well spent on this peaceful, never-to-be-forgotten +day at Windermere.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> <div class="note"> + +<p><a name="ft1" id="ft1" href="#fa1"><span class="fn">1</span></a> Grass.</p> +</div> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page73" id="page73"></a>73</span></p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center fo">IV<br /> + +FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page74" id="page74"></a>74</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page75" id="page75"></a>75</span></p> + +<p class="chap center">IV<br /> + +FROM HAWTHORNDEN TO ROSLIN GLEN</p> + +<table class="reg f80" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Roslin’s towers and braes are bonnie—</p> + <p class="i2">Craigs and water! woods and glen!</p> +<p class="i05">Roslin’s banks! unpeered by ony,</p> + <p class="i2">Save the Muse’s Hawthornden.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">The</span> vale of the Esk is unrivaled, even in +Scotland, for beauty and romantic interest. +From its source to where it enters the Firth of +Forth, the little river winds its way past ancient +castles with their romantic legends, famed in +poetry and song, and the picturesque homes of +barons and lairds, poets and philosophers, forming +as it goes, with rocks and cliffs, tall trees and +overhanging vines, a bewildering succession of +beautiful scenes.</p> + +<p>It was <span class="correction" title="amended from to to">to</span> this charming valley that Walter +Scott came, with his young wife, in the first year +of their wedded life. A young man of imaginative +and romantic temperament, though as yet +unknown to fame, he found the place an inspiration +and delight. A pretty little cottage, with +thatched roof, and a garden commanding a beautiful +view, made the home where many happy +summers were spent. This was at Lasswade, a +village which took its striking name from the +fact—let us hope it was a fact—that here a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page76" id="page76"></a>76</span> +sturdy lass was wont to wade the stream, carrying +travelers on her back,—a ferry service sufficiently +romantic to make up for its uncertainty.</p> + +<p>Lockhart tells us that “it was amidst these +delicious solitudes” that Walter Scott “laid the +imperishable foundation of all his fame. It was +here that when his warm heart was beating with +young and happy love, and his whole mind and +spirit were nerved by new motives for exertion—it +was here that in the ripened glow of manhood +he seems to have first felt something of his +real strength, and poured himself out in those +splendid original ballads which were at once to +fix his name.”</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!</p> + <p class="i2">By Esk’s fair streams that run,</p> +<p class="i05">O’er airy steep through copsewood deep,</p> + <p class="i2">Impervious to the sun.</p> + +<p class="i05 s" style="letter-spacing: 2em;">*******</p> + +<p class="i05 s">Who knows not Melville’s beechy grove</p> + <p class="i2">And Roslin’s rocky glen,</p> +<p class="i05">Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,</p> + <p class="i2">And classic Hawthornden?”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:520px" src="images/img119.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">HAWTHORNDEN</td></tr></table> + +<p>The visitor who would see “Roslin’s rocky +glen” may take a coach in Edinburgh and soon +reach the spot after a pleasant drive over a well-kept +road. But if he would see “classic Hawthornden” +in the same day, he must go there +first. For the gate which separates the two +opens out from Hawthornden and the traveler +cannot pass in the opposite direction. We therefore +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page77" id="page77"></a>77</span> +took the train from Edinburgh, and after +half an hour alighted at a little station, from +which we walked a few hundred yards along a +quiet country road, until we reached a lodge +marking the entrance to a large estate. Entering +here, a few steps brought us to the house of +the gardener, who first conducted us to the place +that interests him the most—a large and well-kept +garden, full of fruits and vegetables, beautiful +flowers and well-trained vines. His pride +satisfied by our sincere admiration of his handiwork, +our guide was ready to reveal to us the +glory of Hawthornden, and conducted us to the +edge of a precipice known as John Knox’s Pulpit. +In front is a deep ravine of stupendous +rocks partly bare and partly covered with bushes +and pendent creepers. The tall trees on the +border, the wooded hill in the distance, and the +grand sweep of the river far below, form a +scene of majestic grandeur as nearly perfect as +one could wish. To the left, on the very edge of a +perpendicular rock, is a strong, well-built mansion, +so situated that the windows of its principal +rooms command a view of the wondrous +vale. On the other side of the house are the +ivy-covered ruins of an older castle, dating back +many centuries.</p> + +<p>Since the middle of the sixteenth century, +Hawthornden has been the home of a family of +Drummonds—a famous Scottish name. William +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page78" id="page78"></a>78</span> +Drummond, the most distinguished of them all, +whose name is inseparably associated with the +place, was born in 1585. His father was a gentleman-usher +at the court of King James VI, and +through his association with the Scottish royalty +had acquired the Hawthornden property. The boy +grew up amid such surroundings, was educated +at the University of Edinburgh, and traveled on +the Continent for three years before settling down +to his life-work, which he then thought would +be the practice of law. But scarcely had he returned +to Edinburgh for this purpose, when his +father died, and young Drummond, at the age +of twenty-four, found himself master of Hawthornden +with ample means at his command. All +thought of the law was abandoned forthwith. +The quiet of Hawthornden and the beauty of its +natural scenery fitted his temperament exactly. +He had already acquired a scholar’s tastes, had +read extensively, and possessed a large library in +which the Latin classics predominated, though +there were many books in Greek, Hebrew, Italian, +Spanish, French, and English. He retired to +his delightful home to live among his books, and +if he found that such surroundings became a tacit +invitation from the Muses to keep them company, +who could wonder? “Content with my +books and the use of my eyes,” he said, “I +learnt even from my boyhood to live beneath my +fortune; and, dwelling by myself as much as I +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page79" id="page79"></a>79</span> +can, I neither sigh for nor seek aught that is outside +me.”</p> + +<p>It has been said that Drummond’s three stars +were Philosophy, Friendship, and Love. Some +three or four years after the poet began his contented +life at Hawthornden, the latter star began +to shine so brightly as to eclipse the other two. +In 1614 he met an attractive girl of seventeen or +eighteen, the daughter of Alexander Cunningham, +of Barns, a country-seat on a little stream +known as the Ore, in Fifeshire, on the opposite +side of the Firth of Forth. His poems began at +once to reveal the extent to which the loveliness +of the fair Euphame had taken possession +of him:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Vaunt not, fair Heavens, of your two glorious lights,</p> +<p class="i05">Which, though most bright, yet see not when they shine,</p> +<p class="i05">And shining cannot show their beams divine</p> +<p class="i05">Both in one place, but part by days and nights;</p> +<p class="i05">Earth, vaunt not of those treasures ye enshrine,</p> +<p class="i05">Held only dear because hid from our sights,</p> +<p class="i05">Your pure and burnished gold your diamonds fine,</p> +<p class="i05">Snow-passing ivory that the eye delights;</p> +<p class="i05">Nor, Seas, of those dear wares are in you found;</p> +<p class="i05">Vaunt not rich pearl, red coral, which do stir</p> +<p class="i05">A fond desire in fools to plunge your ground.</p> +<p class="i05">Those all more fair are to be had in her:</p> +<p class="i05">Pearl, ivory, coral, diamond, suns, gold,</p> +<p class="i05">Teeth, neck, lips, heart, eyes, hair, are to behold.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>On seeing her in a boat on the Forth he declared +her perfection:—</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page80" id="page80"></a>80</span></p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Slide soft, fair Forth, and make a crystal plain;</p> +<p class="i05">Cut your white locks, and on your foaming face</p> +<p class="i05">Let not a wrinkle be, when you embrace</p> +<p class="i05">The boat that earth’s perfections doth contain.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>The river Ore, on the banks of which he first +met his lady-love, became to Drummond the greatest +river in the world. In one sonnet he compares +the tiny stream with every famous river +from the Arno to the Nile; and finds that none +of them</p> + +<p class="center ptb1 f90">“Have ever had so rare a cause of praise.”</p> + +<p>Unfortunately, his happiness was of brief duration, +for on the very eve of the marriage, the +young lady died. Drummond’s grief was intense. +One can almost imagine him mournfully gazing +down the beautiful glen, which she might have +enjoyed with him, and exclaiming—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Trees, happier far than I,</p> +<p class="i05">That have the grace to heave your heads so high,</p> +<p class="i05">And overlook those plains;</p> +<p class="i05">Grow till your branches kiss that lofty sky</p> +<p class="i05">Which her sweet self contains.</p> +<p class="i05">Then make her know my endless love and pains</p> +<p class="i05">And how those tears, which from mine eyes do fall</p> +<p class="i05">Helpt you to rise so tall.</p> +<p class="i05">Tell her, as once I for her sake loved breath</p> +<p class="i05">So, for her sake, I now court lingering death.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:566px" src="images/img125.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE SYCAMORE</td></tr></table> + +<p>For some years after her death, Euphame was +to Drummond what Beatrice was to Dante—the +inspirer of all that was good in him. Later in life +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page81" id="page81"></a>81</span> +he married Elizabeth Logan, a lady who was +said to resemble Euphame Cunningham, and she +became the mother of his five sons and four +daughters.</p> + +<p>In front of the mansion of Hawthornden is a +venerable sycamore, said to be five hundred years +old. In the month of January, 1619, according +to a favorite and oft-told story, Drummond was +sitting beneath this tree, when he saw and recognized +the huge form of Ben Jonson, as that rollicking +hero sauntered toward him along the private +road. Jonson had walked all the way from +London to see what could be seen in Scotland, +and one of the attractions had been an invitation +from Drummond, who was now beginning to be +known in England, to spend two or three weeks +at his home. As he approached, Drummond arose +and greeted him heartily, saying,—</p> + +<p class="center ptb1 f90">“Welcome, welcome, royal Ben!”</p> + +<p class="noind">To which Jonson quickly replied replied—</p> + +<p class="center ptb1 f90">“Thankee, thankee, Hawthornden!”</p> + +<p class="noind">Upon which they both laughed and felt well +acquainted at once.</p> + +<p>The contrast between these two men, as they +stood under the old sycamore, must have been +strongly marked. Drummond, quiet, reserved, +and gentle in manner—Jonson, boisterous and +offensively vulgar: Drummond, well dressed and +refined in appearance—Jonson, fat, coarse, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page82" id="page82"></a>82</span> +and slovenly; Drummond, a country gentleman, +accustomed to live well, but always within his +means, caring little for society, a man of correct +habits and strict piety, and later in life a loving +husband and a tender father—Jonson, the dictator +of literary London, who waved his scepter +in the “Devil Tavern” in Fleet Street, egotistical +and quarrelsome, self-assertive, a bully in disposition, +his life a perpetual round of dissipation +and debt, his means of livelihood dependent on +luck or favor, and his greatest enjoyment centering +in association with those who, like himself, +were most at home in the theaters and taverns +of the great bustling city.</p> + +<p>Yet both were poets and men of genius, though +in different ways. In spite of his peculiarities, +Drummond found “rare Ben Jonson” a most +interesting companion. He kept a close record of +the conversations which passed between them, +and might well be called the father of modern +interviewing. But unlike the interviewer of to-day, +Drummond did not rush to the nearest telegraph +station to get his story “on the wire” and +“scoop” his contemporaries. There were no telegraphs +nor newspapers to call for such effort, and +Drummond had too much respect for the courtesy +due a guest to think of publishing their private +talks. But a portion of the material was published +in 1711, long after Drummond’s death, +and probably the whole of it in 1832. These +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page83" id="page83"></a>83</span> +conversations with one who knew intimately most +of the literary leaders of his time have proved invaluable. +They contain Ben’s opinions of nearly +everybody—Queen Elizabeth, the Earl of Leicester, +King James, Spenser, Raleigh, Shakespeare, +Bacon, Drayton, Beaumont, Chapman, +Fletcher, and many other contemporaries. Most +of all they contain his opinion of himself and his +writings, which needless to say is quite exalted.</p> + +<p>With no thought of his notes being published, +Drummond allowed himself perfect frankness in +writing about his guest. His summary of the impression +made by Ben’s visit is as follows:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>He is a great lover and praiser of himself; a contemner +and scorner of others; given rather to lose a +friend than a jest; jealous of every word and action +of those about him (especially after drink, which is +one of the elements in which he liveth); a dissembler +of ill parts which reign in him, a bragger of some good +that he wanteth; thinketh nothing well but what either +he himself or some of his friends and countrymen hath +said or done: he is passionately kind and angry; careless +either to gain or keep; vindictive, but, if he be +well answered, at himself. For any religion, as being +versed in both. Interpreted best sayings and deeds +often to the worst. Oppressed with phantasy which +hath ever mastered his reason, a general disease in +many poets.... He was in his personal character +the very reverse of Shakespeare, as surly, ill-natured, +proud and disagreeable as Shakespeare, with ten times +his merit, was gentle, good-natured, easy, and amiable.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page84" id="page84"></a>84</span></p> + +<p>Jonson expressed with equal frankness his opinion +of Drummond, to whom he said that he “was +too good and simple, and that oft a man’s modesty +made a fool of his wit.”</p> + +<p>Drummond as a poet was classed by Robert +Southey and Thomas Campbell in the highest +rank of the British poets who appeared before +Milton. His sonnets, which are remarkable for +their exquisite delicacy and tenderness, won for +him the title of “the Scottish Petrarch.” It has +been said that they come as near to perfection as +any others of this kind of writing and that as a +sonneteer Drummond is surpassed only by Shakespeare, +Milton, and Wordsworth among the poets +who have written in English.</p> + +<p>Before taking leave of the Scottish poet and +his picturesque home, we paused for a few minutes +to visit the wondrous caverns, cut out of the +solid rock upon which the house is built. Antiquarians +have insisted that these caves date back +to the time of the Picts, at least as far as the +ninth or tenth century.</p> + +<p>This, too, was the popular understanding before +the scientists offered their opinion. In a +curious old volume, published in 1753,<a name="fa2" id="fa2" href="#ft2"><span class="sp">2</span></a> we are +told:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Underneath [the house of Drummond] are the noted +Caverns of <i>Hawthorn-Den</i>, by Dr. <i>Stuckely</i> in his +<i>Itinerarium-Curiosa</i>, said to have been the King of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page85" id="page85"></a>85</span> +<i>Pictlands</i> Castle or Palace; which nothing can shew +the Doctor’s Credulity more than by suffering himself +to be imposed upon by the Tattle of the Vulgar, who +in all things they cannot account for, are ascribed to +the <i>Picts</i>, without the least Foundation. For those +caves, instead of having been a Castle or Palace, I +take them either to have been a Receptacle for Robbers, +or Places to secure the People and their Effects +in, during the destructive Wars between the <i>Picts</i> and +<i>English</i>, and <i>Scots</i> and <i>English</i>.</p> +</div> + +<p>During the contests between Bruce and Baliol +for the Scottish crown, these caves became a place +of refuge for Bruce and his friends, and one +of the rooms is still pointed out as Bruce’s bedchamber.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Here, too, are labyrinthine paths</p> + <p class="i2">To caverns dark and low,</p> +<p class="i05">Wherein they say King Robert Bruce</p> + <p class="i2">Found refuge from his foe.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>In the walls are many square holes, from twelve +to eighteen inches deep, supposed to have been +used as cupboards. On a rough table near one +of the openings is a rude and very much damaged +desk, said to have been the property of +John Knox.</p> + +<p>Leaving these gloomy resorts of ancient heroes—perhaps +of ancient robbers—we sought a +brighter and more cheerful scene. Descending +the path we reached a bridge over the Esk on +which is a gate that permitted us to leave Hawthornden, +although it does not allow wanderers +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page86" id="page86"></a>86</span> +on the other side to enter. The bridge gave a +fine opportunity for a farewell view of the grand +old mansion, high in the air at the top of the +cliff, which we were now viewing from below.</p> + +<p>A delightful stroll along the left bank of the +stream for about two miles brought us to Roslin +Castle, situated on a rocky promontory high above +the river. At the point of the peninsula the river +is narrowed by a large mass of reddish sandstone +over which it falls. When flooded this becomes a +beautiful cascade,—whence the name, “Ross,” +a Gaelic word meaning promontory or jutting +rock, and “Lyn,” a waterfall,—the “Rock of +the Waterfall.” The Esk, where it forms the cascade, +is still called “the Lynn.” The view from +the promontory is one of the most delightful to +be imagined. The banks are precipitous and covered +with a luxurious growth of natural wood. +The vale seems to be crowded with every possible +combination of trees and cliffs, foliage and sparkling +stream, that nature can put together to form +a region of romantic suggestion.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:480px" src="images/img133.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">RUINS OF ROSLIN CASTLE</td></tr></table> + +<p>Little now remains of the ancient castle of +Roslin, which was formerly two hundred feet +long and ninety feet wide. A few ivy-covered +walls and towers may still be seen, in the midst +of which is a more modern dwelling rebuilt in +1653. The ancient foundation walls, nine feet +thick, still visible below the surface, and the almost +inaccessible location of the castle tell the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page87" id="page87"></a>87</span> +story of its original purpose. A huge kitchen, +with the fireplace alone occupying as much space +as the entire kitchen of one of our modern houses, +suggests the lavish scale upon which the establishment +was once conducted.</p> + +<p>The castle was built by a family of St. Clairs, +whose ancestor, Waldernus de St. Clair, came over +with the Conqueror. William St. Clair, Baron of +Roslin, Earl of Caithness and Prince of the Orkneys, +who flourished in the middle of the fifteenth +century, was one of the most famous of these +barons. He lived in the magnificence of royal +state.</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>He kept a great court and was royally served at his +own table in vessels of gold and silver.... He had +his halls and other apartments richly adorned with +embroidered hangings. His princess, Elizabeth Douglas, +was served by seventy-five gentlewomen, whereof +fifty-three were daughters of noblemen, all clothed in +velvet and silks, with their chains of gold, and other +ornaments; and was attended by two hundred riding +gentlemen in all her journeys; and if it happened to +be dark when she went to Edinburgh, where her lodgings +were at the foot of the Black Friar’s Wynd, eighty +lighted torches were carried before her.<a name="fa3" id="fa3" href="#ft3"><span class="sp">3</span></a></p> +</div> + +<p>The castle was accidentally set on fire in 1447 +and badly damaged, and was leveled to the ground +by English forces under the Earl of Hertford, in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page88" id="page88"></a>88</span> +1544, who was sent to Scotland by Henry VIII +to seek to enforce the marriage of his son Edward +to the infant Mary of Scotland, the daughter of +James V. In 1650 it was again destroyed, during +Cromwell’s campaign in Scotland, by General +Monk, and rising again, suffered severely at the +hands of a mob from Edinburgh in 1688.</p> + +<p>It was William St. Clair, the feudal baron above +referred to, who built the exquisitely beautiful +chapel which stands not far from the castle. The +same ancient manuscript, previously quoted, informs +us that</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>His age creeping on him made him consider how he +had spent his time past, and how to spend that which +was to come. Therefore to the end he might not seem +altogether unthankfull to God for the benefices receaved +from Him, it came in his minde to build a house +for God’s service of most curious work, the which, +that it might be done with greater glory and splendour +he caused artificers to be brought from other regions +and forraigne kingdoms and caused dayly to be +abundance of all kinde of workemen present, etc., etc.</p> +</div> + +<p>The foundation of Roslin Chapel was laid in +1446. It was originally intended to be a cruciform +structure with a high central tower. The +existing chapel is, therefore, really only a small +part of what the church was meant to be. Its +style is called “florid Gothic,” but this is probably +for want of a better name. There is no other +piece of architecture like it in the world. It is a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page89" id="page89"></a>89</span> +medley of all architectures, the Egyptian, Grecian, +Roman, and Saracenic being intermingled with +all kinds of decorations and designs, some exquisitely +beautiful and others quaint and even grotesque. +There are thirteen different varieties of +the arch. The owner, who possessed great wealth, +desired novelty. He secured it by engaging architects +and builders from all parts of Europe. The +most beautiful feature of the interior is known as +the “’Prentice’s Pillar.” It is a column with +richly carved spiral wreaths of beautiful foliage +twined about from floor to ceiling. It is said that +the master-builder, when he came to erect this +column, found himself unable to carry out the +design, and traveled to Rome to see a column of +similar description there. When he returned he +found that his apprentice had studied the plans +in his absence and with greater genius than his +own, had overcome the difficulties and fashioned +a pillar more beautiful than any ever before +dreamed of. The master, stung with jealous rage, +struck the apprentice with his mallet, killing him +instantly. This, at least, is the accepted legend.</p> + +<p>The barons of Roslin were buried beneath the +chapel side by side, encased in their full suits of +armor. There was a curious superstition that when +one of the family died, the chapel was enveloped +in flames, but not consumed. This and the “uncoffined +chiefs” are referred to by Scott in “The +Lay of the Last Minstrel.” The lady is lost in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page90" id="page90"></a>90</span> +the storm while crossing the Firth on her way to +Roslin:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“O’er Roslin all that dreary night</p> + <p class="i2">A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;</p> +<p class="i05">’Twas broader than the watch-fire light,</p> + <p class="i2">And redder than the bright moonbeam.</p> + +<p class="s">“It glared on Roslin’s castled rock,</p> + <p class="i2">It ruddied all the copsewood glen;</p> +<p class="i05">’Twas seen from Dreyden’s groves of oak,</p> + <p class="i2">And seen from caverned Hawthornden.</p> + +<p class="s">“Seemed all on fire that chapel proud</p> + <p class="i2">Where Roslin’s chiefs uncoffined lie,</p> +<p class="i05">Each baron, for a sable shroud,</p> + <p class="i2">Sheathed in his iron panoply.</p> + +<p class="s">“Seemed all on fire within, around,</p> + <p class="i2">Deep sacristy and altar’s pale;</p> +<p class="i05">Shone every pillar foliage-bound,</p> + <p class="i2">And glimmered all the dead men’s mail.</p> + +<p class="s">“Blazed battlement and pinnet high,</p> + <p class="i2">Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—</p> +<p class="i05">So still they blaze when fate is nigh</p> + <p class="i2">The lordly line of high St. Clair.</p> + +<p class="s">“There are twenty of Roslin’s barons bold</p> + <p class="i2">Lie buried within that proud chapelle;</p> +<p class="i05">Each one the holy vault doth hold—</p> + <p class="i2">But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>Commemorated by a tablet in the chapel is +another interesting legend. Robert Bruce, King +of Scotland, in following the chase on Pentland +Hills near Roslin, had often started “a white +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page91" id="page91"></a>91</span> +faunch deer” which invariably escaped from his +hounds. In his vexation he asked his nobles +whether any of them had hounds which would +likely be more successful. All hesitated for fear +that the mere suggestion of possessing dogs superior +to those of the king might be an offense. +But Sir William St. Clair (one of the predecessors +of the builder of the chapel) boldly and unceremoniously +came forward and said he would +wager his head that his two favorite dogs Hold +and Help would kill the deer before it could +cross the March burn. The king promptly accepted +the rash wager, and betted the forest of +Pentland Moor.</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The hunters reach the heathern steeps and Sir William, +posting himself in the best situation for slipping +his dogs, prayed devoutly to Christ, the Virgin Mary, +and St. Katherine. The deer is started, the hounds +are slipped; when Sir William spurs his gallant steed +and cheers the dogs. The deer reaches the middle of +the March-burn brook, the hounds are still in the +rear, and our hero’s life is at its crisis. An awful moment; +the hunter threw himself from his horse in despair +and Fate seemed to sport with his feelings. At +the critical moment Hold fastened on the game, and +Help coming up, turned the deer back and killed it +close by Sir William’s side. The generous monarch +embraced the knight and bestowed on him the lands +of Kirktown, Logan House, Earnsham, etc., in free +forestrie.<a name="fa4" id="fa4" href="#ft4"><span class="sp">4</span></a></p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page92" id="page92"></a>92</span></p> + +<p>The grateful Sir William erected a chapel to +St. Katherine, at the spot, to commemorate the +saint’s intervention.</p> + +<p>One more tale of Roslin remains to be told. +Not far away, on Roslin Moor, occurred one of +the famous battles of Scottish history. There +were really three battles, all fought in one day, +the 24th of February, 1303. Three divisions of +the English army, consisting of thirty thousand +men, were successively attacked by the valiant +Scots with only ten thousand men, who, after +overpowering the first division, attacked the second, +and then the third, defeating all three in +the same day.</p> + +<p>And so, with history and legend, poetry and +romance, real life and fiction, the glory of nature’s +art and the achievements of human handicraft +all happily intermingled in our thought +and blended into one pleasant memory, we brought +to its close our walk through the valley of the +Esk, from Hawthornden to Roslin Glen.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> <div class="note"> + +<p><a name="ft2" id="ft2" href="#fa2"><span class="fn">2</span></a> Maitland’s <i>History of Scotland</i>.</p> + +<p><a name="ft3" id="ft3" href="#fa3"><span class="fn">3</span></a> From an old manuscript, in the Advocates’ Library, collection +of Richard Augustine Hay.</p> + +<p><a name="ft4" id="ft4" href="#fa4"><span class="fn">4</span></a> Britton’s <i>Architectural Antiquities</i>.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page93" id="page93"></a>93</span></p> + +<p class="center fo">V<br /> + +THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page94" id="page94"></a>94</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page95" id="page95"></a>95</span></p> + +<p class="chap center">V<br /> + +THE COUNTRY OF MRS. HUMPHRY WARD</p> + +<p class="center">I<br /> + +<span class="f90">MRS. WARD AND HER WORK</span></p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">“‘Why</span> does any one stay in England who +<i>can</i> make the trip to Paradise?’ said the +duchess, as she leaned lazily back in the corner +of the boat and trailed her fingers in the waters +of Como.”</p> + +<p>These words from “Lady Rose’s Daughter” +came to mind as we glided swiftly in a little +motor-boat, late in the afternoon of a perfect +April day, over the smooth waters of Como and +into the arm of the lake known as Lecco, where +we were to enjoy our cup of tea in a little <i>latteria</i> +high up on a rocky crag. In the stern sat Mrs. +Ward, looking the picture of contentment, a light +summer hat with simple trimmings giving an almost +girlish aspect to a face in which strong +intellectuality and depth of moral purpose were +clearly the predominating features. A day’s work +done,—for Mrs. Ward goes to Como for work, not +play,—this little trip across the lake was one of +her favorite recreations, in which, for the time, +we were hospitably permitted to share. About +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page96" id="page96"></a>96</span> +us were the scenes “enchanted, incomparable,” +which are best described in the words of Mrs. +Ward herself:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>When Spring descends upon the shores of the Lago +di Como, she brings with her all the graces, all the +beauties, all the fine, delicate, and temperate delights +of which earth and sky are capable, and she pours +them forth upon a land of perfect loveliness. Around +the shores of other lakes—Maggiore, Lugano, Garda—blue +mountains rise and the vineyards spread their +green and dazzling terraces to the sun. Only Como +can show in unmatched union a main composition, incomparably +grand and harmonious, combined with +every jeweled or glowing or exquisite detail. Nowhere +do the mountains lean towards each other in such an +ordered splendor as that which bends around the +northern shores of Como. Nowhere do buttressed +masses rise behind each other, to right and left of a +blue waterway, in lines statelier or more noble than +those kept by the mountains of Lecco Lake as they +marshal themselves on either hand, along the approaches +to Lombardy and Venetia.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:528px; height:750px" src="images/img145.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">MRS. HUMPHRY WARD AND MISS DOROTHY WARD</td></tr></table> + +<p>... And within this divine framework, between +the glistening snows which still, in April, crown and +glorify the heights, and those reflections of them +which lie encalmed in the deep bosom of the lake, +there’s not a foot of pasture, not a shelf of vineyard, +not a slope of forest, where the spring is not at work, +dyeing the turf with gentians, starring it with narcissuses, +or drawing across it the first golden network of +the chestnut leaves; where the mere emerald of the +grass is not in itself a thing to refresh the very +springs of being; where the peach-blossom and the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page97" id="page97"></a>97</span> +wild cherry and the olive are not perpetually weaving +patterns on the blue which ravish the very heart out +of your breast. And already the roses are beginning +to pour over the wall; the wistaria is climbing up the +cypresses; a pomp of camellias and azaleas is in all +the gardens; while in the glassy bays that run up into +the hills the primrose banks still keep their sweet +austerity, and the triumph of spring over the just +banished winter is still sharp and new.</p> +</div> + +<p>It was in a garden such as this, with a wild +cherry tree and olives “perpetually weaving patterns” +against the blue sky, that we first met +Mrs. Ward. It was a balmy April morning. The +scent of spring was in the air, and the birds were +adding their melody to the beauty of the landscape. +The villa stands well up the slope of a high +hill and is reached by a winding path through +fragrant trees. A little below the level of the +house is a shady nook, well sheltered from the +sun, from which the high mountains of the north +and the blue glimmer of the lake beneath can be +plainly seen. Here we were greeted by the novelist +in terms of cordiality that instantly made us “feel +at home.” There was no posing, none of that +condescension which some writers had led us to +expect. We were simply welcomed as friends, +with a perfect hospitality that seemed to be born +of the tranquil beauty all about us.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ward is a woman of rather more than +medium height and of erect and graceful carriage. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page98" id="page98"></a>98</span> +Her manner is dignified, but it is the dignity +of one properly conscious of her own strength +and is never repellent. One cannot help feeling +that he is in the presence of a distinguished person—one +who has justly earned a world-wide +fame—and yet one in whom the attributes of +true womanliness reign supreme. You are proud +of the honor of her friendship, and yet you cannot +help thinking what an excellent neighbor she +would be.</p> + +<p>The instinct which impels Mrs. Ward to seek +such scenes of beauty as Lake Como in which to +do her writing came to her naturally, for her +childhood was spent in one of the most beautiful +parts of all England, Westmoreland, the home of +Wordsworth and of Ruskin. Here “Arnold of +Rugby” made his home in a charmingly situated +cottage known as Fox How. “Fox,” in the language +of Westmoreland, means “fairy,” and +“how” is “hill.” A “fairy hill” indeed it must +have seemed to Dr. Arnold’s little granddaughter +Mary, when as a child of five she was brought +there by her father from far-away Tasmania, +where she was born. The English Lakes are +famous for their beauty, but there is no more +delightful spot in all the region than the valley +“under Loughrigg,” and no lovelier river than the +Rothay, rippling over the smooth pebbles from +Wordsworth’s beloved Rydal Water down to the +more pretentious grandeur of Lake Windermere. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page99" id="page99"></a>99</span> +The impressions of her childhood created in the +future novelist an intense love of these streams +and mountains, which only increased with her +absence and the enlargement of her field of +vision. When she was the mother of a little girl +of seven and a boy of four, she determined to +give to them the same impressions which had delighted +her own childhood, and the family made +an ever-memorable visit from Oxford, where they +were then living, to the vicinity of Fox How—a +visit which all children may enjoy who will read +the pretty little story of “Milly and Olly.”</p> + +<p>Mary Augusta Arnold was born in Tasmania +on the 11th of June, 1851. Her father, Thomas +Arnold, second son of Dr. Arnold of Rugby and +brother of Matthew Arnold, was at that time Inspector +of Schools in the far-away island. He had +married the granddaughter of Colonel Sorell, a +former Governor of Tasmania, and no doubt intended +to remain there permanently. But, becoming +interested, even at that distance, in the +so-called “Oxford Movement” of the middle of +the last century, he determined to return to England, +where he followed Newman and others into +the Roman Catholic Church, accepting a professorship +of English Literature in the Catholic +University of Dublin. His daughter Mary, the +eldest of six, was sent to Ambleside to be educated. +In 1865, having renounced the Catholic +faith, Mr. Arnold took up his residence at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page100" id="page100"></a>100</span> +Oxford. Here his eldest daughter, at the age of +fourteen, came under the influence of the friendships +and associations which were to have so potent +an influence upon her future career. The +most important of these were Professor Mark +Pattison and the Bodleian Library. Professor +Pattison strongly urged her to specialize her +studies, and acting upon his suggestion, she +learned the Spanish language and began a course +of study in Spanish literature and history, in +which she found the facilities of the Bodleian +Library invaluable. In 1872 she became the wife +of Mr. Thomas Humphry Ward, then a fellow +and tutor in Brasenose College. During the ensuing +ten or eleven years Mrs. Ward assisted her +husband in his literary work and contributed +largely to the “Pall Mall Gazette,” the “Saturday +Review,” the “Academy,” and other magazines, +besides publishing the little book for children +already referred to, “Milly and Olly.”</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:750px; height:512px" src="images/img151.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">“UNDER LOUGHRIGG”</td></tr></table> + +<p>In 1881 Mr. Ward accepted a position on the +staff of the “Times,” and the family removed to +London. For several years they occupied a house +in Russell Square, which Mrs. Ward still regards +with fond memories, later removing to their present +town house, No. 25 Grosvenor Place. But +Mrs. Ward’s love of nature is too intense for an +uninterrupted residence in London, and she possesses +an ideal country home some thirty miles +away, near the little village of Aldbury, known +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page101" id="page101"></a>101</span> +as “Stocks.” This large and beautiful estate is +ancient enough to be mentioned in “Domesday +Book.” Its name does not come from the old +“stocks” used as an instrument of punishment, +which may still be seen in the village, although +this is a common supposition. “Stocks” is derived +from the German “stock,” meaning stick +or tree, and refers to the magnificent grove by +which the house is surrounded.</p> + +<p>Before Stocks became a possibility, Mrs. Ward +usually managed to choose a summer home in the +country, and these choices are most interestingly +reflected in her novels. During the Oxford residence +Surrey was a favorite resort for seven years, +its atmosphere entering largely into the composition +of “Miss Bretherton” and “Robert +Elsmere.” Two nights spent at a farm on the +Kinderscout gave ample material for the opening +chapter of the “History of David Grieve.” +The lease for a season of Hampden House, in +Buckinghamshire, gave the original for Mellor +Park in “Marcella,” and a visit near Crewe fixed +the scenes of “Sir George Tressady.” “Helbeck +of Bannisdale” was the result of a summer spent +in the delightful home of Captain Bagot, of Levens +Hall, near Kendal. Summers in Italy and +Switzerland gave most charming scenery for +“Lady Rose’s Daughter” and “Eleanor,” and, +to a less degree, “The Marriage of William +Ashe.” The cottage of her youngest daughter, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page102" id="page102"></a>102</span> +Dorothy, near the Langdale Pikes, suggested the +home of Fenwick, while Diana Mallory found +her home in Stocks itself. Thus the creatures of +Mrs. Ward’s fancy have simply lived in the places +which she knew the best. They are all scenes of +beauty, for Mrs. Ward loves the beautiful in +nature, and has spent her life where this yearning +could be most fully gratified.</p> + +<p>But if Mrs. Ward seeks the country as the +best place for literary work, she is not idle when +in the city. If any one imagines her to be merely +a society woman with a genius for literature, he +is making a serious mistake. Outside of society +and literature she is a busy woman, bent on the +accomplishment of a task which few would have +the courage to assume. Her ideal is best expressed +in the closing words of “Robert Elsmere”:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The New Brotherhood still exists, and grows. There +are many who imagined that, as it had been raised +out of the earth by Elsmere’s genius, so it would sink +with him. Not so! He would have fought the struggle +to victory with surpassing force, with a brilliancy and +rapidity none after him could rival. But the struggle +was not his. His effort was but a fraction of the effort +of the race. In that effort, and in the Divine force +behind it, is our trust, as was his.</p> +</div> + +<p>These words, written nearly a quarter of a +century ago, were truly prophetic. For Mrs. +Ward not only possesses the kind of genius from +which an Elsmere could be created, but is gifted +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page103" id="page103"></a>103</span> +with a rare capacity for business, which has enabled +her to crystallize the ideals of her work of +fiction into a substantial and permanent institution +for practical benevolence. She was already +interested in “settlement” work among the poor +of London during the writing of the novel. But +in 1891, after the storm of criticism which the +book aroused had subsided, its suggestions began +to take definite shape in the organization +of the Passmore Edwards Settlement, in University +Hall, in Gordon Square. In 1898 the +work was moved to its present quarters in Tavistock +Place, where, under the leadership of Mrs. +Ward and through the generosity of herself and +the friends whom she had been able to influence, +a large and substantial building was erected. +Directly in the rear of the building is a large +garden owned by the Duke of Bedford, who +recently placed it at the disposal of the Settlement, +keeping it in order at his own expense, resowing +the grass every year to keep it fresh and +thick. Here in the vacation season one thousand +children daily enjoy the luxury of sitting and +walking on the grass, and that in the heart of +central London. The garden occupies the site +of Dickens’s Tavistock House. One cannot help +imagining the author of Little Nell sitting there +in spirit while troops of happy London children +pass in review. The land here placed entirely +at the disposal of Mrs. Ward and the warden +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page104" id="page104"></a>104</span> +of the Settlement is worth not less than half a +million dollars. Twenty-seven teachers, under +the direction of a competent supervisor, give instruction +in organized out-of-door exercises.</p> + +<p>This was the first of the recreation schools or +play centers. Handwork occupations, such as +cooking—both for girls and boys—sewing, knitting, +basket-work, carpentering, cobbling, clay +modeling, painting and drawing; dancing combined +with old English songs and nursery rhymes; +musical drill and gymnastics; quiet games and +singing games; acting; and a children’s library +of story-books and picture-books—these are the +provisions which have been made for the fortunate +children of that locality.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:481px" src="images/img157.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE PASSMORE EDWARDS SETTLEMENT HOUSE</td></tr></table> + +<p>The entire purpose of such play centers is to +rescue the children of the poor from the demoralization +that results from being turned out to +play after school hours in the streets and alleyways, +where they are subjected to every kind of +vile association and influence. The effects already +noted by those in charge of the centers are improvement +in manners, in thoughtfulness for the +little ones, and in unselfishness; increase in regard +for truth and honesty; the development of +the instinct in all children to “make something”; +the teaching that it is more enjoyable to play together +in harmony than when obedience to a +leader is refused. The success of this first experiment +was so marked that gradually other centers +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page105" id="page105"></a>105</span> +were started in different parts of London. Liberal +sums of money were placed in the hands of Mrs. +Ward, who enlisted the support of the County +Council to the extent of securing facilities in the +public school buildings. The work has so far progressed +that the total attendance last year<a name="fa5" id="fa5" href="#ft5"><span class="sp">5</span></a> reached +an aggregate of six hundred thousand. It is difficult +to estimate from these figures how many +children were affected, but, taking—at a guess—fifty +times as the average attendance of each, +this would mean that the lives of at least twelve +thousand poor children were directly lifted up +by this practical charity, and that as many more +hard-working and anxious parents were indirectly +benefited.</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Ward will not be satisfied until the +entire school population of London has been +made to feel the influence of these play centers. +Private beneficence, as she has plainly pointed +out, can never solve the problem. “Private +effort,” said she in a well-known letter to the +London “Times,” “cannot deal with seven hundred +and fifty thousand children, or even with +three hundred thousand. If there is a serious +and urgent need, if both the physique and the +morale of our town children are largely at stake, +and if private persons can only touch a fraction +of the problem, what remains but to appeal to the +public conscience?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page106" id="page106"></a>106</span></p> + +<p>This is Mrs. Ward’s way of “doing things.” +She does not appeal to public authority to accomplish +an ideal without first finding a way and +proving that it can be done. But, having clearly +demonstrated her proposition at private expense, +she does not rest content with the results so obtained, +but pushes steadily forward toward the +larger ideal, which can be realized only through +public support.</p> + +<p>But the recreation school is only a part of the +work of the Passmore Edwards Settlement. During +the daytime many of the rooms are used by +the “Cripple Schools.” Children who are suffering +from spinal diseases, heart trouble, and deformities +of various kinds which prevent attendance +at the regular schools are daily brought to +the Settlement in ambulances. Here the little +ones do all kinds of kindergarten work, while +the older ones are instructed in drawing, sewing, +bent-iron work, and other suitable tasks. As an +outgrowth of this school twenty-three cripple +schools are now in operation in London.</p> + +<p>But it is in the evening that the Passmore +Edwards Settlement is seen to best advantage. +There is a large library containing some three +thousand volumes, which are kept in active use. +On Monday nights two tables in this room are +the centers of busy groups. These represent the +“coal club,” a businesslike charity of a very +practical kind. The club buys a large quantity +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page107" id="page107"></a>107</span> +of coal in the summer-time, when it can be obtained +cheapest. As a large consumer, it usually +gets every possible concession. The members of +this club can buy the coal in small quantities as +wanted, or as they are able to pay for it, at any +time during the year, at the summer price of one +shilling one and a half pence per hundred weight +(twenty-seven cents). If bought during the winter +in the ordinary way, they would have to pay +perhaps five or six pence more—a very substantial +saving. Thrift is encouraged by allowing +members to deposit small sums in the summer to +apply against their winter purchases. Last year the +club transacted a business equal to about $4300.</p> + +<p>“The Poor Man’s Lawyer” is another practical +part of the work. Once each week free legal +advice is given to all who ask it, and considerable +money has been saved to people who, from ignorance +and poverty, might have been imposed +upon. The “Men’s Club,” the “Boys’ Club,” the +“Factory Girls’ Club,” and the “Women’s Club” +are all actively engaged in performing the usual +functions of such organizations. There is a gymnasium +where boys and girls, men and women, all +have their regular turns of systematic instruction.</p> + +<p>An orchestra of a dozen pieces and a choral +society of forty members, together with a dramatic +society, give opportunity for many to take +part in numerous concerts and entertainments. A +large hall is the scene nearly every night of some +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page108" id="page108"></a>108</span> +kind of social amusement. The room is decorated +with many pictures, all reproductions of the best +works of art, while around the walls are placed +busts in marble of Emerson, James Martineau, +Dickens, Matthew Arnold, Benjamin Jowett, and +Sir William Herschel—the gift of Mr. Passmore +Edwards. There is a large stage for dramatic performances, +drills, etc., with a piano and a good +organ. There are tables where the members may +play cards, smoke, or have light refreshments. +On Sunday nights there are concerts or lectures. +The whole atmosphere of the place is attractive +to the men and women who frequent it. There is +no obtrusive piety, no patronizing air, nothing to +offend the pride of the poor man who values his +self-esteem, yet all the influences of the place are +elevating.</p> + +<p>The whole spirit of the Settlement is expressed +in these words, displayed in a framed notice at +the entrance to the social hall:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>We believe that many changes in the conditions of +life and labour are <span class="correction" title="amended from neeeded">needed</span>, and are coming to pass; +but we believe also that men, without any change except +in themselves and in their feelings towards one +another, might make this world a better and a happier +place.</p> + +<p>Therefore, with the same sympathies but different +experiences of life, we meet to exchange ideas and to +discuss social questions, in the hope that, as we learn +to know one another better, a feeling of fellowship +may arise among us.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page109" id="page109"></a>109</span></p> + +<p>To these ends we have a Library, Clubs, Lectures, +Classes, Entertainments, etc., and we endeavour to +make the Settlement a centre where we may unite our +several resources in a social and intellectual home.</p> +</div> + +<p>In all this work Mrs. Humphry Ward is the +inspiration, and a moving, active spirit. Her name +stands next to that of the wealthy Duke of Bedford +as the most liberal contributor. She is the +Honorable Secretary of the Council, a member +of the Finance Committee, president of the +Women’s Club, etc. But these are only her +official positions. Her directing hand is manifest +in every branch of the work, and, from the warden +down to the humblest member of the Girls’ +Club, her name is accorded a respect amounting +almost to reverence.</p> + +<p>But, as with the play centers, Mrs. Ward is +not content with the work of this one institution, +splendid as it is. To her it is only the means of +ascertaining the way. She feels that she is dealing +with a great problem, and her method is to +ascertain, first of all, the best solution, and then +to use her large influence to induce others to +take up the work. Thus the “New Brotherhood” +of Robert Elsmere has not only continued to exist +for a quarter of a century, but has in it the +elements of growth which will make it a vital +power in human society long after the real +Robert Elsmere, in the person of Mrs. Ward, has +ceased to be the directing force.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page110" id="page110"></a>110</span></p> + +<p class="center pt2">II<br /> + +<span class="f90">THE REAL ROBERT ELSMERE</span></p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">In</span> seeking to point out the real persons and +places of Mrs. Ward’s novels, it is only fair to +the author to begin with her own statement as +to the story-teller’s method of procedure:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>An idea, a situation, is suggested to him by real life, +he takes traits and peculiarities from this or that person +whom he has known or seen, but that is all. When +he comes to write ... the mere necessities of an imaginative +effort oblige him to cut himself adrift from +reality. His characters become to him the creatures of +a dream, as vivid often as his waking life, but still a +dream. And the only portraits he is drawing are portraits +of phantoms, of which the germs were present +in reality, but to which he himself has given voice, +garb, and action.</p> +</div> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:740px; height:499px" src="images/img165.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE LIME WALK</td></tr></table> + +<p>It is my purpose to point out some of these +“germs of reality” in Mrs. Ward’s work, relying +for the essential facts, at least, upon information +given me personally by the novelist herself. +For Mrs. Ward does not hesitate to admit +that certain characters were drawn from real life; +but she insists upon a proper understanding of +the exact sense in which this is true. Because +“Miss Bretherton” was suggested by the career +of Mary Anderson it does not follow that all that +is said of the former is true of the latter. There +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page111" id="page111"></a>111</span> +is a vast difference between a “suggestion” and +a “portrait.” The thoughts and feelings or the +personal characteristics of a certain individual +may suggest a character who in his physical +aspects, his environment, and the events of his +career may be conceived as an individual totally +different. Mrs. Ward’s novels contain no portraits +and no history. But they abound in characters +suggested by people whom she has known, +in incidents and reminiscences of real life, and +in vivid word-pictures of scenes which she has +learned to love or of places with which she is +personally familiar.</p> + +<p>A study of the scenery of these novels properly +begins in the County of Surrey. About four +miles southwest of Godalming is Borough Farm, +an old-fashioned brick house, which we reached +by a drive over country that seemed in places +almost like a desert—so wild and forsaken that +one could scarcely believe it to be within a few +miles of some of the busiest suburbs of London. +But it has a splendid beauty of its own. The +thick gorse with its golden blossoms everywhere +waves a welcome. There are now and then great +oaks to greet you, and graceful patches of white +birch. And everywhere is a delightfully exhilarating +sense of freedom and fresh air such as only +this kind of open country can suggest. Here +Mrs. Ward lived for seven summers, finding in +the country round about some of the most interesting +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page112" id="page112"></a>112</span> +of the scenes of her first novel, “Miss +Bretherton,” and of “Robert Elsmere.”</p> + +<p>“Miss Bretherton” was published in 1884. +Mary Anderson was at that time the reigning +success on the London stage, while Sarah Bernhardt, +in Paris, was startling the world with an +art of a totally different character. The beauty +of the young American actress was the one subject +of conversation. Was it her beauty that attracted +the crowds to the theater, and that alone? +Was she totally lacking in that consummate art +which the great Frenchwoman admittedly possessed? +These questions suggested to Mrs. Ward +the theme of her first attempt at fiction. The +beautiful Miss Bretherton is taken in hand by a +party of friends representing the highest types +of culture. In their effort to give her mind and +body much-needed rest from the exactions of +London society she is carried away on two notable +excursions. The first is to Surrey, the real +scene of this outing being a place near Borough +Farm called “Forked Pond,” well known to Mrs. +Ward and her family while residents at the farm. +The other is to Oxford, where, after admiring the +colleges, which brought many happy recollections +to the gentlemen of the party, Miss Bretherton +is taken to Nuneham Park, a beautiful place +on the river where a small rustic bridge enhances +the romantic character of the surroundings. This, +of course, was familiar ground to the author, who +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page113" id="page113"></a>113</span> +spent sixteen happy years in that vicinity as a +resident of Oxford. Through the kindness of +these friends, and particularly by the influence of +Kendal, who becomes her lover, Miss Bretherton +is made to take a new view of her art, and is transformed +into an actress of real dramatic power.</p> + +<p>Although a charming story, “Miss Bretherton” +did not prove successful and had little part +in making the reputation of the novelist, who is +likely to be known as “the author of ‘Robert +Elsmere,’” so long as her fame shall endure. +For this great book created a sensation throughout +the English-speaking world when it appeared, +and aroused controversies which did not subside +for many years.</p> + +<p>The scenery of “Robert Elsmere” combines +the Westmoreland which Mrs. Ward learned to +love in her childhood with the Oxford of her +girlhood and early married life, and the Surrey +where so many pleasant summers were spent. +Not wishing, for fear of recognition, to describe +the country near Ambleside, with which she was +most familiar, Mrs. Ward placed the scenes of +the opening chapters in the neighboring valley +of Long Sleddale, giving it the name of Long +Whindale. Whinborough is the city of Kendal, +and the village of Shanmoor is Kentmere. Burwood +Farm, where the Leyburns lived, is a house +far up the valley, which still “peeps through the +trees” at the passer-by just as it did in the days +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page114" id="page114"></a>114</span> +when Robert Elsmere first met the saintly Catherine +there. A few hundred yards down the +stream is a little stone church across the road +from a small stone schoolhouse, and next to the +school a gray stone vicarage, standing high above +the little river, all three bearing the date 1863. +At sight of this group of <span class="correction" title="amended from buidings">buildings</span> one almost +expects to catch a glimpse of the well-meaning +but not over-wise Mrs. Thornburgh, sitting in +the shade of the vicarage, awaiting the coming +of old John Backhouse, the carrier, with the +anxiously expected consignment of “airy and +appetizing trifles” from the confectioner’s.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:480px" src="images/img171.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">COTTAGE OF “MARY BACKHOUSE”</td></tr></table> + +<p>At the extreme end of the valley the road abruptly +comes to an end. A stone bridge leads off +to the left to a group of three small farms. In +front no sign of human habitation meets the eye. +The hills seem to come together, forming a kind +of bowl, and there is no sound to break the stillness +save the ripple of the river. It was to this +lonely spot that Catherine was in the habit of +walking, quite alone, to visit the dying Mary +Backhouse. The house of John and Jim Backhouse +where Mary died may still be seen. It is +the oldest of the three farms above mentioned. +A very small cottage, it is wedged between a +stable on one side and a sort of barn or storehouse +on the other, so that from the road before +crossing the bridge it seems to be quite pretentious. +The house dates back to 1670. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page115" id="page115"></a>115</span> +Mary Backhouse never existed except in imagination, +but Mrs. Ward, upon seeing the photograph +of the house, exclaimed with much +satisfaction, “Yes, that is the very house where +Mary Backhouse died.” So real to her are the +events described in her novels that Mrs. Ward +frequently refers to the scenes in this way. Behind +the house is a very steep hill, covered with +trees and rough stones. It was over this hill +that Robert and Catherine walked on the night +of Mary Backhouse’s death. Readers of “Robert +Elsmere” will remember that poor Mary was the +victim of a strange hallucination. On the night +of Midsummer Day, one year before, she had +seen the ghost or “bogle” of “Bleacliff Tarn.” +To see the ghost was terror enough, but to be +spoken to by it was the sign of death within a +year. And Mary had both seen and been spoken +to by the ghost. Her mind, so far as she had one, +for she was really half-insane, was concentrated +on the one horrible thought—that on Midsummer +Night she must die. The night had +at last arrived, and Catherine, true to her charitable +impulses, was there to comfort the dying +girl.</p> + +<p>The weather was growing darker and stormier; +the wind shook the house in gusts, and the farther +shoulder of High Fell was almost hidden by +the trailing rain-clouds. But Catherine feared +nothing when a human soul was in need, and, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page116" id="page116"></a>116</span> +hoping to pacify the poor woman, volunteered +to go out to the top of the Fell and over the +very track of the ghost at the precise hour when +she was supposed to walk, to prove that there +was nothing near “but the dear old hills and the +power of God.” As she opened the door of the +kitchen, Catherine was surprised to find Robert +Elsmere there, and together they set out, over the +rough, stony path, facing the wind and rain as +they climbed the distant fell-side. There Robert +pleaded his love against Catherine’s stern sense +of duty, and won.</p> + +<p>When Robert and Catherine were married, +they went to live at the Rectory of Murewell, in +Surrey. This old house is at Peper Harow, three +miles west of Godalming and a mile or so from +Borough Farm. It was leased for one summer +by Mrs. Ward. A plain, square house of stone, +much discolored by the weather, it could hardly +be called attractive in itself. But stepping back +to the road, with its picturesque stone wall surmounted +by foliage, and viewing the house as +it appears from there, flanked on the left by a +fine spreading elm and on the right by a tall, +pointed fir and a cluster of oaks, with a little +flower garden under the windows and the gracefully +curving walk leading past the door in a +semicircle stretching from gate to gate, the ugly +house is transformed into a home of beauty, +where Robert and Catherine, one can well imagine, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page117" id="page117"></a>117</span> +might have been quite happy and contented +with their surroundings.</p> + +<p>In the rear of the house is the garden, famous +for its phloxes, the scene of many walks +and family confidences. At the farther end is +the gate where Langham poured out the story +of his life in passionate speech, impelled by the +equally passionate sympathy of Rose, only to +recall himself a moment later, “the critic in +him making the most bitter, remorseless mock of +all these heroics and despairs the other self had +been indulging in.”</p> + +<p>Only a short walk from the Rectory is the little +church of Peper Harow, the scene of Robert’s +early clerical labors, and further on is the large +and beautiful Peper Harow Park, the present +home of Lord Middleton. This attractive park +is the original of Squire Wendover’s, but the +house itself is not described. The fine library +owned by the Squire, which so delighted Robert +Elsmere with its many rare books, was in reality +the famous Bodleian Library of Oxford, with +which the author became familiar very early in +life.</p> + +<p>Three characters from real life, each a man of +marked individuality, stand out prominently in +the pages of “Robert Elsmere.” These are Professor +Mark Pattison, whose strong personality +and scholarly attainments suggested Squire Wendover; +Professor Thomas H. Green, the original of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page118" id="page118"></a>118</span> +Mr. Grey; and the melancholy Swiss philosopher, +poet, and dreamer Amiel, who was the prototype +of Langham.</p> + +<p>The theme of the novel is the development +of Robert Elsmere’s character and the gradual +change of his religious views, brought about +through many a bitter struggle. In this the principal +influence was that of Roger Wendover, a +typical English squire of large possessions, but, +in addition, a scholar of the first rank, the possessor +of a large library filled with rare and important +volumes of history, philosophy, science, +and religion, with the contents of which he was +thoroughly familiar, and an author of two great +books, one of which had stirred up a tremendous +excitement in the circles of English religious +thought.</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The Pentateuch, the Prophets, the Gospels, St. +Paul, Tradition, the Fathers, Protestantism and Justification +by Faith, the Eighteenth Century, the Broad +Church Movement, Anglican Theology—the Squire +had his say about them all. And while the coolness +and frankness of the method sent a shock of indignation +and horror through the religious public, the subtle +and caustic style, and the epigrams with which +the book was strewn, forced both the religious and +the irreligious public to read, whether they would or +no. A storm of controversy rose round the volumes, +and some of the keenest observers of English life had +said at the time, and maintained since, that the publication +of the book had made or marked an epoch.</p> +</div> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:479px" src="images/img177.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE RECTORY OF PEPER HAROW</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page119" id="page119"></a>119</span></p> + +<p>Against the influence of such a book, and +more particularly against a growing intimacy +with its author, Robert Elsmere felt himself as +helpless as a child. The squire’s talk “was simply +the outpouring of one of the richest, most +skeptical, and most highly trained of minds on +the subject of Christian origins.” His two books +were, he said, merely an interlude in his life-work, +which had been devoted to an “exhaustive +examination of human records” in the preparation +of a great History of Testimony which +had required learning the Oriental languages +and sifting and comparing the entire mass of +existing records of classical antiquity—India, +Persia, Egypt, and Judea—down to the Renaissance.</p> + +<p>Reference has already been made to the influence +of Professor Mark Pattison upon the early +life of Mrs. Ward. To create the Squire she had +only to imagine the house in the great park of +Peper Harow, equipped with a library like the +Bodleian, and inhabited by a person who might +be otherwise like any English squire, but in mental +equipment a duplicate to some extent of the +Rector of Lincoln. Professor Pattison’s father +was a strict evangelical. He gave his son a good +education, and the boy early manifested a delight +in literature and learning. He soon developed an +independence of character, and, refusing to confine +his reading to the prescribed books of orthodoxy, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page120" id="page120"></a>120</span> +delved into the classics extensively as well +as the English literature of Pope, Addison, and +Swift. He was graduated at Oxford in 1836, and +took his M.A. degree in 1840. By this time he +had abandoned the evangelical teachings of his +youth, and with other young men came under +the influence of Newman, in whose house he went +to live. When Newman went into the Roman +Catholic Church in 1845, Pattison was not so +much shocked as others. Indeed, he confessed +that he “might have dropped off to Rome himself +in some moment of mental and physical +depression or under pressure of some arguing +convert.” But Pattison, who was now a Fellow +at Lincoln College, was thoroughly devoted to +his work and was fast gaining a great reputation, +not only for his magnetic influence upon young +men, but as one of the ablest of college tutors +and lecturers. In 1861 he became Rector of Lincoln. +He was an indefatigable writer, contributing +to many magazines and to the “Encyclopædia +Britannica.” An article on “Tendencies of +Religious Thought in England, 1688-1750” +aroused widespread comment. His literary work +was marked by evidences of most painstaking research +coupled with a profound scholarship and +excellent judgment in the arrangement of his +material. He devoted a lifetime to the preparation +of a history of learning—a stupendous +undertaking of which only a portion was ever +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page121" id="page121"></a>121</span> +completed. He possessed a library said to be the +largest private collection of his time in Oxford. +It numbered fourteen thousand volumes, and was +extraordinarily complete in books on the history +of learning and philosophy in the sixteenth, seventeenth, +and eighteenth centuries. Of Professor +Pattison’s personality his biographer says:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Under a singularly stiff and freezing manner to +strangers and to those whom he disliked he concealed +a most kindly nature, full of geniality and sympathy +and a great love of congenial and especially of female +society. But it was in his intercourse with his pupils +and generally with those younger than himself that he +was seen to most advantage. His conversation was +marked by a delicate irony. His words were few and +deliberate but pregnant with meaning and above all +stimulating, and their effect was heightened by perhaps +too frequent and, especially to undergraduates, +somewhat embarrassing flashes of silence.</p> +</div> + +<p>All these qualities are continually appearing +in the Squire. But Professor Pattison’s own definition +of a man of learning is the best description +of Roger Wendover:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Learning is a peculiar compound of memory, imagination, +scientific habit, accurate observation, all +concentrated through a prolonged period on the analysis +of the remains of literature. The result of this sustained +mental endeavor is not a book, but a man. It +cannot be embodied in print; it consists of the living +word.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page122" id="page122"></a>122</span></p> + +<p>The second in importance of the potent influences +upon Robert Elsmere’s character was that +of Henry Grey, a tutor of St. Anselm’s (Balliol +College), Oxford. Very early in his Oxford career +Elsmere was taken to hear a sermon by Mr. Grey, +which made a deep impression on his mind. The +substance of this sermon, which is briefly summarized +in the novel, was taken from a volume +of lay sermons by Professor Thomas Hill Green, +entitled “The Witness of God.”</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The whole basis of Grey’s thought was ardently +idealist and Hegelian. He had broken with the popular +Christianity, but for him God, consciousness, duty, +were the only realities. None of the various forms of +materialist thought escaped his challenge; no genuine +utterance of the spiritual life of man but was sure of +his sympathy. It was known that, after having prepared +himself for the Christian ministry, he had remained +a layman because it had become impossible to +him to accept miracle; and it was evident that the +commoner type of Churchmen regarded him as an +antagonist all the more dangerous because he was so +sympathetic.</p> +</div> + +<p>All of this, like all the other references to +Grey throughout the book, applies perfectly to +Professor Green. He was the leading exponent +at Oxford of the principles of Kant and Hegel, +and attracted many followers. His simplicity, +power, and earnestness commanded respect. He +associated with his pupils on terms of friendly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page123" id="page123"></a>123</span> +intimacy, frequently taking some of them with +him on his vacations. He was a man of singularly +lofty character, and those who knew him were +reminded of Wordsworth, whom he resembled in +some ways.</p> + +<p>When Elsmere is advised by his friend Newcome +to solve all the problems of his doubt by +trampling upon himself, flinging away his freedom, +and stifling his intellect, these words of +Henry Grey flash upon his mind:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>God is not wisely trusted when declared unintelligible. +Such honor rooted in dishonor stands; such +faith unfaithful makes us falsely true.</p> + +<p>God is forever reason; and his communication, his +revelation, is reason.</p> +</div> + +<p>The words are taken from the same volume of +Professor Green’s sermons.</p> + +<p>The death of this dear friend of Robert Elsmere +occurred in 1882, and is most touchingly +described. An old Quaker aunt was sitting by +his bedside:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>She was a beautiful old figure in her white cap and +kerchief, and it seemed to please him to lie and look +at her. “It’ll not be for long, Henry,” she said to +him once. “I’m seventy-seven this spring. I shall +come to thee soon.” He made no reply, and his silence +seemed to disturb her.... “Thou’rt not doubting +the Lord’s goodness, Henry?” she said to him, with +the tears in her eyes. “No,” he said, “no, never. Only +it seems to be his will; we should be certain of nothing—<i>but +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page124" id="page124"></a>124</span> +Himself</i>! I ask no more.” I shall never +forget the accent of these words; they were the breath +of his inmost life.</p> +</div> + +<p>To understand the third of the three characters +from real life in “Robert Elsmere,” it is +necessary to glance at the story of Henri Frédéric +Amiel, a Swiss essayist, philosopher, and +dreamer, who was born in 1821 and died in +1881, leaving as a legacy to his friends a “Journal +Intime” covering the psychological observations, +meditations, and inmost thoughts of thirty +years. They represented a prodigious amount of +labor, covering some seventeen thousand folio +pages of manuscript. This extensive journal was +translated into English by Mrs. Ward and published +in 1883, five years before the date of +“Robert Elsmere.” Her long and exhaustive +study of the life of this extraordinary man as revealed +by himself made a deep impression upon +the mind of the novelist—so much so that she +could not refrain from introducing him in the +person of the morbid Langham. A brief glance +at some of the peculiarities of Amiel will prove +the best interpretation of Langham, without +which the latter must always remain a mystery.</p> + +<p>Amiel’s estimate of the value of his life-work +was not a high one. “This Journal of mine,” he +said, “represents the material of a good many +volumes; what prodigious waste of thought, of +strength. It will be useful to nobody, and even +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page125" id="page125"></a>125</span> +for myself it has rather helped me to shirk life +than to practice it.” And again, “Is everything +I have produced taken together, my correspondence, +these thousands of journal pages, my lectures, +my articles, my poems, my notes of different +kinds—anything better than withered +leaves? To whom and to what have I been useful? +Will my name survive me a single day? +And will it ever mean anything to anybody? A +life of no account! When it is all added up, +nothing!”</p> + +<p>“Amiel,” says Mrs. Ward, “might have been +saved from despair by love and marriage, by +paternity, by strenuous and successful literary +production.”</p> + +<p>Family life attracted him perpetually. “I cannot +escape from the ideal of it,” he said. “A companion +of my life, of my work, of my thoughts, +of my hopes; within, a common worship—towards +the world outside, kindness and beneficence; +education to undertake; the thousand and +one moral relations which develop around the first—all +these ideas intoxicate me sometimes.”</p> + +<p>But in vain. “Reality, the present, the irreparable, +the necessary, repel and even terrify me. +I have too much imagination, conscience, and +penetration, and not enough character. The life +of thought alone seems to me to have enough +elasticity and immensity to be free enough from +the irreparable; practical life makes me afraid. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page126" id="page126"></a>126</span> +I am distrustful of myself and of happiness because +I know myself. The ideal poisons for me +all imperfect possession, and I abhor all useless +regrets and repentances.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Ward dramatized this strange individuality +in the character of Langham. The love-scene +in which Langham wins the hand of the +beautiful Rose, followed by the all-night mental +struggle in which he finally feels compelled to +renounce all that he has gained, is almost tragic +in its intensity.</p> + +<p>Poor Langham, with the prize fairly within +his grasp, found that he lacked the courage to +retain it. And so the morning after the proposal, +instead of the pleasantly anticipated call from her +accepted lover, the unfortunate Rose was shocked +to receive a pessimistic letter announcing that +the engagement had not survived the night. To +the casual reader it would seem that such a man +as Langham would be impossible. But that Amiel +was just such a person his elaborate journal fully +reveals. And Professor Mark Pattison has given +his testimony that Amiel was not alone in his +experiences, for six months after the journal was +published he wrote, “I can vouch that there is +in existence at least one other soul which has +lived through the same struggles mental and +moral as Amiel.”</p> + +<p>Among the very large number of persons who +come upon the stage in the action of this remarkable +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page127" id="page127"></a>127</span> +book, several besides the Squire, Grey, +and Langham may have been suggested by persons +whom the author knew. But the prototypes +of these three are the only ones who really enter, +in a vital way, into the actual construction of the +novel. “But who was the real Elsmere?” one +naturally asks. Many attempts have been made +to identify this good preacher or that worthy reformer +with the famous character, much to the +annoyance of the author, who really created Elsmere +out of the influences already described. The +real Elsmere would be obviously one whose religious +views were moulded by Mark Pattison and +Thomas H. Green, and one who was profoundly +interested in, if not influenced by, the strange +self-distrust of Amiel. The real Elsmere would +be also one whose religious convictions led inevitably +to the desire to perform some practical +service to mankind. Such an Elsmere exists in +the person of Mrs. Ward herself, who is to-day +regarded by the workers and associates of the +Passmore Edwards Settlement, in Tavistock Place, +London, with very much the same love and gratitude +as Elsmere won from the people of Elgood +Street. For this beneficent institution was a direct +result of the novel, and owes its existence very +largely to Mrs. Ward’s energetic and influential +efforts.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page128" id="page128"></a>128</span></p> + +<p class="center pt2">III<br /> + +<span class="f90">OTHER PEOPLE AND SCENERY</span></p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">“The</span> History of David Grieve,” Mrs. Ward’s +third novel, is by many considered, next to “Robert +Elsmere,” her greatest achievement. David +and his sister Louie are the orphan children +of a sturdy and high-minded Englishman whose +wife was a French woman of somewhat doubtful +character. Their development from early +childhood to full maturity is traced with a +power of psychological analysis seldom equaled. +Both are intensely human and fall easy prey to +the temptations of their environment, but in the +end David overcomes the evil influences, while +poor Louie, inheriting more of her mother’s +temperament, goes to her death in poverty and +disgrace.</p> + +<p>The most attractive part of the book is the +opening, where the two children are seen roaming +the hills of the wild moorland country of +their birth. This is the Kinderscout region, in +Derbyshire, something over twenty miles southeast +of Manchester.</p> + +<p>The visitor must take the train to Hayfield, +called Clough End in the novel, and then, if he +is fortunate enough to have permission from +the owner, may drive a distance of four or five +miles to what is now called Upper House, the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page129" id="page129"></a>129</span> +country home of a wealthy merchant of Manchester. +This was originally known as Marriott’s +Farm, and for several hundred years was owned +by a family of that name. Here Mrs. Ward +spent two days, when the entire house consisted +of what is now the right wing. She walked over +the moors and along the top of the Kinderscout +with Mr. Marriott as her guide, and thus obtained +the knowledge for the most perfect description of +pastoral life to be found in any of her novels.</p> + +<p>Needham’s Farm, the home of David and +Louie, is the only other farm in the neighborhood. +It is now known as the Lower House, +and is owned by the same Manchester gentleman, +but is leased to a family named Needham, +who have occupied it for many years. It looks +now just as it did when Mrs. Ward described it.</p> + +<p>The “Owd Smithy,” where the prayer-meeting +was held and Louie wickedly played the +ghost of Jenny Crum, is now only remotely +suggested by a heap of rocks bearing little resemblance +to a building of any kind. Huge mill-stones, +partly embedded in the earth, are scattered +about here and there. The Downfall, +which, when the water is coming over, is visible +for miles around, is ordinarily a bare, bleak pile +of rocks, for it is usually nearly if not quite dry. +But after a heavy rain the water comes over in +large volume, and, if the wind is strong, is blown +back, presenting a most curious spectacle of a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page130" id="page130"></a>130</span> +cascade seeming to disappear in the air when +halfway to the bottom. Not far away is the +Mermaid’s Pool, haunted by the ghost of Jenny +Crum. There is a real ghost story connected with +this pool, which doubtless formed the basis of +Mrs. Ward’s legend. An old farmer named Tom +Heys was much troubled by a ghost, of which +he could not rid himself. He once shot at it, +but without effect except that the bullet-mark +is in the old house even now. An old woman +once saw the ghost while shearing sheep. She +threw the tongs at it. Instantly the room was +filled with flying fleece, while the woman’s clothes +were cut to pieces and fell off her body. These +were some of the troublesome pranks played by +the ghost. At length the farmer discovered, somewhere +on his place, an old skull, which doubtless +belonged to His Ghostship, and carried it to the +Mermaid’s Pool, where he deposited it</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“To stay as long as holly’s green,</p> +<p class="i05">And rocks on Kinderscout are seen.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>This effectually disposed of the ghost so far as +he was concerned, but the spirit still hovers over +the Mermaid’s Pool.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:480px" src="images/img191.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE ROTHAY AND NAB SCAR</td></tr></table> + +<p>Market Place, Manchester, where we find David +after his flight from the old farm, looks to-day +very much the same. Half Street, however, +on the east of the cathedral, has disappeared. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page131" id="page131"></a>131</span> +Purcell’s shop in this street was described from a +quaint little book-shop which actually existed at +the time.</p> + +<p>The Parisian scenes of “David Grieve,” the +Louvre, the Boulevards, the Latin Quarter, Fontainebleau, +Saint-Germain, and Barbizon, are +all too well known to need mention here. The +final scenes of the novel, where David’s wife is +brought after the beginning of her fatal illness, +are in one of the most beautiful localities in the +English Lake District. Lucy’s house is supposed +to be on the right bank of the river. The house +is imaginary (the one on the left bank having +no connection with the story), but the location +is exactly described. This is just above Pelter +Bridge, a mile north of Ambleside, where the +river Rothay combines with the adjacent hills +to make one of those fascinating scenes for +which Westmoreland is famous. Nab Scar looms +up before us, and off to the left is Loughrigg. +A stroll along the river brings one to the little +bridge at the outlet of Rydal Water, where +David walked for quiet meditation during his +wife’s illness; and still farther northward the +larch plantations on the side of Silver How add +their touch of beauty to the landscape. This entire +region has always been dear to Mrs. Ward’s +heart from the associations of her girlhood, and, +if Lucy must die, she could think of no more +lovely spot for the last sad scenes.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page132" id="page132"></a>132</span></p> + +<p>One character in “David Grieve” is drawn +from real life—Élise Delaunay, the French girl +with whom David falls in love on his first visit +to Paris. This is, in some respects, a portrait of +Marie Bashkirtseff, a young native of Russia, +whose brief career as an artist attracted much +notice. Marie was born of wealthy parents in +1860. When she was only ten years old her +mother quarreled with her husband and left him, +taking the children with her. Marie returned to +her father, with whom she traveled extensively. +A born artist, the journey through Italy created +in her a new and thrilling interest. She resolved +to devote her life to art, and in 1877 entered +the school of Julian in Paris. She soon showed +astonishing capacity, and Julian assured her that +her draughtsmanship was remarkable. One of +her paintings, “Le Meeting,” was exhibited in +the Salon of 1884, and attracted much notice. +Reproductions were made in all the leading papers, +and it was finally bought by the cousin of +the Czar, the Grand Duke Constantino Constantinowitch, +a distinguished connoisseur and himself +a painter. This picture represents half a dozen +street gamins of the ordinary Parisian type holding +a conference in the street. Their faces exhibit +all the seriousness of a group of financiers +consulting upon some project of vast importance.</p> + +<p>The peculiarity of Marie’s character is set +forth by her biographer in words which enable +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page133" id="page133"></a>133</span> +the reader of “David Grieve” instantly to recognize +Élise Delaunay:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>She never wholly yields herself up to any fixed +rule of conduct, or even passion, being swayed this +way or that by the intense impressionability of her +nature. She herself recognized this anomaly in the +remark, “My life can’t endure; I have a deal too +much of some things and a deal too little of others, +and a character not made to last.” The very intensity +of her desire to see life at all points seems to defeat +itself, and she cannot help stealing side glances +at ambition during the most romantic tête-à-tête with +a lover, or being tortured by visions of unsatisfied +love when art should have engrossed all her faculties.</p> +</div> + +<p>In the last year of her life Marie achieved an +admiration for Bastien-Lepage which, her biographer +says, “has a suspicious flavour of love +about it. It is the strongest, sweetest, most impassioned +feeling of her existence.” She died in +1884, at the early age of twenty-four, assured +by Bastien-Lepage that no other woman had ever +accomplished so much at her age.</p> + +<p>“Marcella” and “Sir George Tressady” are +novels of English social and political life—a +field in which Mrs. Ward is peculiarly at home, +and in which she has no superior. Marcella, who +in her final development became one of the most +beautiful women of all Mrs. Ward’s characters, +was suggested by the personality of an intimate +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page134" id="page134"></a>134</span> +friend, whose name need not be mentioned. Mellor +Park, the home of Marcella, is drawn from +Hampden House in Buckinghamshire. It is a +famous old house, some centuries old, now the +country-seat of the Earl of Buckinghamshire, +and, with its well-kept gardens and spacious +park, is unusually attractive. Twenty years ago, +however, it was in a state of neglect. The road +leading to it was full of underbrush, the garden +was wholly uncared-for, and the house itself +much in need of repair. This is the state in +which Mrs. Ward describes it—and she knew +it well, for she had leased it for a season and +made it her summer home. The murder of the +gamekeeper, described as taking place near Mellor +Park, really happened at Stocks, Mrs. Ward’s +present home near Tring.</p> + +<p>The village of Ferth, where Sir George Tressady +had his home and owned the collieries, is a +mining village ten miles from Crewe, known as +“Talk o’ the Hill.” The ugly black house to +which Tressady brought home his young wife +was described from an actual house which the +author visited.</p> + +<p>“Helbeck of Bannisdale” was written while +the author was living at Levens Hall, the handsome +country home of Captain Bagot, M.P., +which Mrs. Ward leased for a summer. It is a +few miles south of Kendal, in Westmoreland, +and just on the border of the “Peat Moss” +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page135" id="page135"></a>135</span> +country. The old hall dates back to 1170, the +original deed now in possession of Captain +Bagot bearing that date. The dining-room has +an inlaid design over the mantel with the date +1586. The entrance-hall, dining-room, and drawing-room +contain many antique relics. But the +most remarkable feature of Levens is the garden, +containing about two hundred yews trained +and trimmed into every conceivable shape. There +is an “umbrella” which has required two hundred +years of constant care to reach its present +size and shape; a British lion, with perfect coronet; +a peacock with correctly formed neck and +tail feathers; a barrister’s wig, a kaffir’s hut, +and so on through a long list of curious shapes. +In front of the house the river Kent, with a +bridge of two arches, makes a picturesque scene. +This is the “bridge over the Bannisdale River” +which marked the end of Laura’s drive with +Mason, where at sight of Helbeck the young +man made his sudden and unceremonious departure. +A spacious park skirts the river, through +which runs a grassy road bounded by splendid +oaks intertwining their branches high above. +Following this path we reached a foot-bridge +barely wide enough for one person to cross, on +the park end of which is a rough platform apparently +built for fishermen. Here Laura kept +her clandestine appointment with Mason, and on +her way home was mistaken for the ghost of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page136" id="page136"></a>136</span> +“Bannisdale Lady,” much to the terror of a +poor old man who chanced to be passing, and +not a little to her own subsequent embarrassment. +A little beyond is the deep pool where +Laura was drowned.</p> + +<p>The exterior of Bannisdale Hall is not Levens, +but Sizergh Castle, some two or three miles +nearer Kendal. At the time of the story a +Catholic family of Stricklands owned the place, +but, like Helbeck, were gradually selling parts +of their property, and dealers from London and +elsewhere were constantly coming to carry off +furniture or paintings. The family finally lost +the property, and it was acquired by a distant +relative, Sir Gerald Strickland, who was recently +appointed Governor of New South Wales, and +who now owns but does not occupy it.</p> + +<p>The little chapel, high up on a hill, where +Laura was buried, is at Cartmel Fell, in Northern +Lancashire. A quaint little chapel five or six +hundred years old, it is well worth a visit.</p> + +<p class="pt1">The scenes of “Eleanor” are in Italy, and here +Mrs. Ward fairly revels in descriptions of “Italy, +the beloved and beautiful.” The opening chapters +have their setting in the Villa Barberini, on the +ridge of the Alban Hills, south of Rome, from the +balcony of which the dome of St. Peter’s can be +seen in the distance, dominating the landscape +by day and seeming at night to be the one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page137" id="page137"></a>137</span> +thing which has definite form and identity. +There is a visit to Nemi and Egeria’s Spring, +after which the scene changes to the valley of +the Paglia, beyond the hill town of Orvieto, “a +valley with wooded hills on either side, of a bluish-green +color, checkered with hill towns and slim +campaniles and winding roads; and, binding it +all in one, the loops and reaches of a full brown +river.”</p> + +<p>Torre Amiata—the real name of which is +Torre Alfina—is a magnificent castle, “a place +of remote and enchanting beauty.” Through +some Italian friends, Mrs. Ward met the agent +of this great estate, who put his house at her +disposal for a season. This happy opportunity +gave her the intimate acquaintance with the +surrounding country which she used with such +excellent skill in “Eleanor,” and enabled her, +among other things, to discover the ruined convent +and chapel which formed the dismal retreat +of Lucy and Eleanor in their strange flight +from Mr. Manisty.</p> + +<p class="pt1">“Lady Rose’s Daughter,” which followed +“Eleanor,” likewise reflects the author’s love of +Italy. It was written, in part at least, in the +beautiful villa at Cadenabbia, on Lake Como, +from which a view of surpassing loveliness meets +the eye in every direction. Mrs. Ward never +tires of it, and in her leisure moments while there +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page138" id="page138"></a>138</span> +found great delight in reproducing in her sketch-book +the charming colors of a landscape which can +scarcely be equaled in any other part of the world.</p> + +<p>The setting of the novel in its earlier chapters +is London. But when Julie Le Breton, worn out +by mental anguish, the result of experiences +which had nearly ruined her life, could be rescued +and brought back to life only by a quiet +rest amid pleasant surroundings, Lake Como was +the place selected by her kind-hearted little +friend the duchess. As her strength gradually +returned she daily walked over the hill to the +path that led to the woods overhanging the +Villa Carlotta.</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>Such a path! To the left hand, and, as it seemed, +steeply beneath her feet, all earth and heaven—the +wide lake, the purple mountains, the glories of a +flaming sky. On the calm spaces of water lay a shimmer +of crimson and gold, repeating the noble splendor +of the clouds.... To her right a green hillside—each +blade of grass, each flower, each tuft of heath, +enskied, transfigured by the broad light that poured +across it from the hidden west. And on the very hilltop +a few scattered olives, peaches, and wild cherries +scrawled upon the blue, their bare, leaning stems, their +pearly whites, their golden pinks and feathery gray, +all in a glory of sunset that made of them things enchanted, +aerial, fantastical, like a dance of Botticelli +angels on the height.</p> +</div> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:485px" src="images/img201.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">LAKE COMO</td></tr></table> + +<p>The story opens with a graphic description of +Lady Henry’s salon—frequented by the most +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page139" id="page139"></a>139</span> +prominent people in London—where the chief +attraction was not the great lady herself, but her +maid companion, Julie Le Breton. Everywhere +Julie was met with smiles and evidence of eager +interest. She knew every one, and “her rule +appeared to be at once absolute and welcome.” +But one evening Lady Henry was ill and gave +orders that the guests be turned away with her +apologies. As the carriages drove up, one by +one, the footman rehearsed Lady Henry’s excuses. +But a group of men soon assembled in +the inner vestibule, and Julie felt impelled to +invite them into the library, where they were +implored not to make any noise. The distinguished +frequenters of Lady Henry’s salon were all there. +Coffee was served, and, stimulated by the blazing +fire and a sense of excitement due to the +novelty of the situation, an animated conversation +sprang up, which continued till midnight +and was at last suddenly interrupted by the unexpected +appearance of Lady Henry herself.</p> + +<p>Lady Henry’s awakening led to Julie’s dismissal. +But her friends did not desert her. A +little cottage was found, where Julie was soon +comfortably installed.</p> + +<p>This much of the story—and little if any +more—was suggested by the life of Julie de +Lespinasse, a Frenchwoman who figured brilliantly +in the Paris society of the middle of the +eighteenth century.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page140" id="page140"></a>140</span></p> + +<p>In 1754 the Marquise du Deffand was one of +the famous women of Paris. Her quick intelligence +and a great reputation for wit had brought +to her drawing-room the famous authors, philosophers, +and learned men of the day. But the +great lady, now nearly sixty, was entirely blind +and subject to a “chronic weariness that devoured +her.” She sought a remedy in the society +of an extraordinarily attractive young woman, +of somewhat doubtful parentage, named Julie +de Lespinasse, whom she took into her home as +a companion. Julie became a great social success. +For ten years she remained with Madame +du Deffand, when a bitter quarrel separated +them. Julie’s friends combined to assure her an +income and a home, and she was soon established +almost opposite the house of her former +patron. The Maréchale de Luxembourg presented +her with a complete suite of furniture. +Turgot, the famous Minister of Louis XVI, and +President Hénault were among those who provided +funds. D’Alembert, distinguished as a +philosopher, author, and geometrician, who was +the cause of the quarrel with the marquise, became +Julie’s most intimate friend. When she +founded her own salon, his official patronage +and constant presence assured its success. Her +success was, in fact, astonishingly rapid. “In the +space of a few months,” says her biographer, +the Marquis de Ségur, “the modest room with +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page141" id="page141"></a>141</span> +the crimson blinds was nightly filled, between +the hours of six and ten, by a crowd of chosen +visitors, courtiers and men of letters, soldiers +and churchmen, ambassadors and great ladies, +... each and all gayly jostling elbows as they +struggled up the narrow wooden stairs, unregretting, +and forgetting in the ardor of their +talk, the richest houses in Paris, their suppers +and balls, the opera, and the futile lures of the +grand world.”</p> + +<p>The remarkable career and unique personality +of this famous woman furnished the suggestion +for Julie Le Breton. But beyond this the resemblance +is slight. The subsequent history of +the Frenchwoman has no relation to the story +of “Lady Rose’s Daughter,” and the personality +of the two women differs in many respects.</p> + +<p class="pt1">“The Marriage of William Ashe” is like +“Lady Rose’s Daughter” in two important respects: +it is a story in which the author reveals +an extraordinary knowledge of English politics +and familiarity with the social life of the upper +classes, and it is one in which a story of real +life plays an important part. Indeed, there is far +more of real life in this novel than in any other +the author has written. William Ashe and his +frivolous and erratic wife Kitty are portraits, considerably +modified, it is true, but nevertheless +real, of William and Caroline Lamb. William +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page142" id="page142"></a>142</span> +Lamb—known to posterity as Lord Melbourne—did +not become a distinguished statesman +until after he had entered the House of Lords. +For twenty-five years he had been a member of +the House of Commons, of little influence and +almost unknown to the country at large. But +soon after the death of George IV he entered +the cabinet of Earl Grey as Home Secretary. +This was in 1830. Less than four years later he +rose suddenly to the highest position in the +state. As Premier it was his unique privilege to +instruct the young Queen, Victoria, in the duties +of her high office—a task which he executed +with commendable tact and skill. It is the +inconsequential William Lamb of the House of +Commons, and not the exalted Lord Melbourne, +whom Mrs. Ward had in mind in portraying +William Ashe; and it was more particularly his +young wife, Caroline Lamb, who furnished the +real motive of the novel.</p> + +<p>“Lady Caroline,” we are told by Lord Melbourne’s +biographer, Dr. Dunckley, “became the +mistress of many accomplishments. She acquired +French and Latin, and had the further courage, +Mr. Torrens tells us, to undertake the recital of +an ode of Sappho. She could draw and paint, and +had the instinct of caricature. Her mind was +brimming with romance, and, regardless of conventionality, +she followed her own tastes in everything. +In conversation she was both vivacious +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page143" id="page143"></a>143</span> +and witty.” Such was Lady Caroline Ponsonby +when she married William Lamb. The marriage +proved an extremely unhappy one. Lady Caroline’s +whole life was a series of flirtations—deliberately +planned, as a matter of fact, and yet +entered upon with such mad rushes of passion as +to seem merely the result of some irresistible +impulse. A son was born to the couple, but he +brought no joy, for as he grew up he developed +an infirmity of intellect amounting almost to imbecility. +The life of the young people was “an +incessant round of frivolous dissipation.” The +after-supper revels often lasted till daybreak. But +this brought no happiness, and both husband and +wife came to realize that marriage had been, for +them, a troublesome affair. About this time Lord +Byron appeared on the scene. “Childe Harold” +had brought him sudden fame. He had traveled +in the East, was the hero of many escapades, had +been sufficiently wicked to win the admiration of +certain ladies of romantic tendencies, and altogether +created quite a <i>furor</i> through the peculiar +charms of his handsome face and dashing ways. +He sought and obtained an introduction to Lady +Caroline. He came to call the next day when she +was alone, and for the next nine months almost +lived at Melbourne House. They called each other +by endearing names, and exchanged passionate +verses. They were constantly together, and the +intimacy caused much scandalous comment. It +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page144" id="page144"></a>144</span> +lasted until Byron became tired of it all, and announced +his intention of marrying. The marriage +to a cousin of Lady Caroline aroused the fierce +jealousy of the latter, who proceeded to perform +a little melodrama of her own, first trying to +jump out of a window and then stabbing herself—not +so deep that it would hurt—with a +knife.</p> + +<p>Such escapades could have but one result. +There came a separation, of course; but some +traces of the early love remained in both, and +when Lady Caroline was dying, William Lamb +was summoned from Ireland. The final parting +was not without tender affection on both sides, +and William felt his loss deeply.</p> + +<p>In this brief sketch the reader of Mrs. Ward’s +novel will recognize Kitty Ashe in every line. +The portraiture is very close. Cliffe takes the +place of Lord Byron without being made to resemble +him. But he serves to reveal the weakness +of Kitty’s character. Even Kitty’s mischievous +work in writing a book, which came near ruining +her husband’s career, was an episode in the life +of Caroline Lamb. She wrote a novel in which +Byron and herself were the principal characters, +and their escapades were paraded before the world +in a thin disguise which deceived nobody.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:480px" src="images/img209.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">STOCKS</td></tr></table> + +<p>Of Mrs. Ward’s later books there is little to +say, so far as scenes and “originals” are concerned. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page145" id="page145"></a>145</span> +In “Fenwick’s Career” the little cottage +where the artist and his wife lived was in reality +the summer home of Mrs. Ward’s daughter +Dorothy. It stands on the slope of a hill near the +Langdale Pikes in Westmoreland, commanding a +view of surpassing loveliness.</p> + +<p>In the “Testing of Diana Mallory” the scenery +is all taken from the country near Stocks, the +summer home of the novelist.</p> + +<p>In “Daphne,” or “Marriage à la Mode,” +Mount Vernon, Washington, Niagara Falls, and +an imaginary English estate supply the necessary +scenery, and these are not described with real +interest, for the author, contrary to her usual +custom, is here writing with a fixed didactic purpose. +But a chapter incidentally thrown in reflects +the novelist’s impressions of a visit to the +White House as the guest of President Roosevelt—an +experience which interested her greatly. +In “the tall, black-haired man with the meditative +eye, the equal, social or intellectual, of any +Foreign Minister that Europe might pit against +him, or any diplomat that might be sent to +handle him,” it is easy to recognize Mr. Root. +Secretary Garfield is “this younger man, sparely +built, with the sane handsome face—son of a +famous father, modest, amiable, efficient.” Secretary +Taft, with whom, apparently, the distinguished +author did not really become acquainted, +is lightly referred to as “this other +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page146" id="page146"></a>146</span> +of huge bulk and height, the hope of a party, +smiling already a Presidential smile as he passed.”</p> + +<p>It has been said of this book that it does an +injustice to America. But such was assuredly far +from the author’s intent. Mrs. Ward, who is one +of the keenest observers of English and European +public men, pays a high compliment in the +remark that “America need make no excuses +whatever for her best men.... She has evolved +the leaders she wants, and Europe has nothing +to teach them.” She is attacking the laxity of +the divorce laws in certain American States, and +in doing so is actuated by motives which every +high-minded American must applaud. The English +general who berates American institutions +is held up to ridicule, and the most agreeable +woman in the book—perhaps the only agreeable +one—is an American. Daphne, through whom +the author condemns the evil, is not a typical +American girl, but, with evident intent to avoid +offense, is made the daughter of a foreigner.</p> + +<p>As a matter of fact, Mrs. Ward’s feelings toward +America are of the kindliest nature, and, +whatever may be said of the merits of “Marriage +à la Mode” as a work of fiction, in condemning +an abuse which nobody can defend she has performed +a real service.</p> + +<hr class="foot" /> <div class="note"> + +<p><a name="ft5" id="ft5" href="#fa5"><span class="fn">5</span></a> 1908.</p> +</div> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page147" id="page147"></a>147</span></p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p class="center fo">VI<br /> + +A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page148" id="page148"></a>148</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page149" id="page149"></a>149</span></p> + +<p class="chap center">VI<br /> + +A TOUR OF THE ITALIAN LAKES</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">We</span> caught our first glimpse of Maggiore +from a window in Stresa, late in the afternoon +of a charming day in early spring. In spite +of the lateness of the hour, with all the enthusiasm +of amateurs, we proceeded to make a photograph +of the charming scene. Ruskin was right +when he declared Maggiore to be the most beautiful +of all the Italian lakes;—at least, we felt +willing to admit this, even though we had not +yet seen the others. In the foreground were the +green lawns and white paths of a well-kept park, +skirting the lake; then a wide stretch of water, +roughened by the wind so that its surface, usually +smooth, was now dotted with whitecaps, +dancing and sparkling in the afternoon sun; +across the water to the left, the village of Pallanza, +pushing itself far out into the lake, and +thrown into strong relief by the high mountains +at its back; far away in the distance, the white-capped +summit of some Alpine range; and above +it all, the most beautiful of blue Italian skies.</p> + +<p>We gazed long upon the scene, until the twilight +began to deepen. Soon two figures appeared +at the entrance to the park, one a woman +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page150" id="page150"></a>150</span> +in a green velvet gown, the other a man in a +long flowing mantle of the style peculiar to +Italy. They seemed in earnest conversation, now +approaching each other with vigorous but graceful +gestures, now falling back a step or two and +again advancing. The man would throw his +cloak over his left shoulder; then, when his +earnestness caused it to slip away, he would +throw it back again, repeating the movement +over and over. We could almost fancy overhearing +Lorenzo say:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i5">“In such a night</p> +<p>Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew,</p> +<p>And with an unthrift love did run from Venice</p> +<p>As far as Belmont”;</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">and hearing Jessica reply:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i4">“And in such a night</p> +<p>Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well,</p> +<p>Stealing her soul with many vows of faith,</p> +<p>And ne’er a true one.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">The little pantomime seemed all that was needed +to complete the romance of the scene, while the +gathering twilight lent its aid.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:473px" src="images/img217.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">LAKE MAGGIORE, ITALY</td></tr></table> + +<p>The Lago di Maggiore, known to the Romans +as Lacus Verbanus, is the westernmost as +well as the largest of three lovely lakes which +lie on the southern slope of the Alps, in an area +not greater than that of the State of Rhode +Island. The Lago di Como, or Lacus Larius, is +the easternmost of the group, while the Lago di +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page151" id="page151"></a>151</span> +Lugano, smaller, but not less beautiful, lies between +the other two.</p> + +<p>There is a peculiar delicacy of beauty about +these lakes like an exquisitely tinted rosebud +or the perfume of apple blossoms. The ruggedness +of aspect common to most mountain lakes is +here lost in the soft luxuriance of the green +shores, the sparkling waters, and the rich blue +sky. The hills are lined with terraces of green +vineyards, interspersed with the pink of peach +and almond blossoms. Camellias and azaleas +brighten the gardens. Mulberry trees, olives, and +cypresses, mingling with their sturdy Northern +companions, the spruces and pines, cast their +varied foliage against the brown of the near-by +mountains. In the distance the snow-clad peaks +of the Alps interpose their white mantles between +the blue of the sky and the warmer tones +of the hillsides, while here and there picturesque +villages stand out on projecting promontories to +lend an additional gleam of whiteness to the landscape.</p> + +<p>Mingling with the charm of all this natural +beauty and intensifying it are the atmosphere of +poetry and romance which one instinctively feels, +and the more tangible associations with history, +literature, science, art, and architecture which +are constantly suggested as one makes the tour +of the lakes.</p> + +<p>In the morning we found our places on the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page152" id="page152"></a>152</span> +upper deck of the little steamer that makes a +zigzag journey through Maggiore. No sooner +had the boat started than we heard sweet strains +of music and a chorus of well-modulated male +voices. The night before we had had a miniature +play for our special benefit. Can it be possible +that now we are to have Italian opera? +They were only a party of native excursionists, +but we were genuinely sorry when they disembarked +at the next landing.</p> + +<p>Leaving Stresa, famous as the home of Cavour, +when that great statesman was planning +the creation of a united Italy, we soon came in +sight of Isola Bella. As it lay there in the bright +sunlight, its green terraces and tropical foliage, +its white towers and arcaded walls reflected in +the blue waters of the lake, the snowy mountains +forming a distant background and a cloudless +blue sky surmounting the whole, we thought it +beautiful. But in this, it seems, our taste was at +fault, and while admiring we ought to have +been criticizing. It was like spending an evening +with genuine enjoyment at the theater, only +to find out the next morning from the critic of +the daily newspaper that the play was poor, the +acting only ordinary, and the applause merely +an act of generosity. Southey wrote of it, “Isola +Bella is at once the most costly and the most +absurd effort of bad taste that has ever been +produced by wealth and extravagance.” A more +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page153" id="page153"></a>153</span> +recent English writer condemns its “monstrous +artificialities.” He declares that “the gardens +are a triumph of bad taste,” and that “artificial +grottoes, bristling with shells, terrible pieces of +hewn stone, which it would be an offense to +sculpture to term statuary, offend the eye at +every turn.” Another says that it is “like a +Périgord pie, stuck all over with the heads of +woodcocks and partridges,” while some one else +thinks it “worthy the taste of a confectioner.”</p> + +<p>On the other hand, our own distinguished +novelist, Mrs. Edith Wharton, found much to +be admired:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>The palace has ... one feature of peculiar interest +to the student of villa architecture, namely, the beautiful +series of rooms in the south basement, opening +on the gardens, and decorated with the most exquisite +ornamentation of pebble-work and sea-shells, mingled +with delicate-tinted stucco. These low-vaulted rooms, +with marble floors, grotto-like walls, and fountains +dripping into fluted conches, are like a poet’s notion +of some twilight refuge from summer heats, where +the languid green air has the coolness of water: even +the fantastic consoles, tables, and benches, in which +cool glimmering mosaics are combined with carved +wood and stucco painted in faint greens and rose-tints, +might have been made of mother-of-pearl, coral, +and seaweed for the adornment of some submarine +palace.</p> +</div> + +<p>It was the fashion to admire the island before +it became the rule to condemn its artificiality. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page154" id="page154"></a>154</span> +Bishop Burnet visited Maggiore in 1685, fourteen +years after the Count Vitaliano Borromeo +had transformed the island from a barren slate +rock into a costly summer residence. He thought +it “one of the loveliest spots of ground in the +world,” and wrote, “there is nothing in all Italy +that can be compared with it.” At a much later +time, Lord Lytton allowed himself to rise to the +heights of enthusiasm:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“O fairy island of a fairy sea,</p> + <p class="i2">Wherein Calypso might have spelled the Greek,</p> +<p class="i05">Or Flora piled her fragrant treasury,</p> + <p class="i2">Culled from each shore her zephyr’s wings could seek,—</p> + <p class="i3">From rocks where aloes blow.</p> + +<p class="s">“Tier upon tier, Hesperian fruits arise:</p> + <p class="i2">The hanging bowers of this soft Babylon;</p> +<p class="i05">An India mellows in the Lombard skies,</p> + <p class="i2">And changelings, stolen from the Lybian sun,</p> + <p class="i3">Smile to yon Alps of snow.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:479px" src="images/img223.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">ISOLA BELLA, LAKE MAGGIORE</td></tr></table> + +<p>The charge of artificiality must be admitted. +A bare rock cannot be transformed into a thing +of beauty and escape the charge. The ten terraces +are a series of walls, built in the form of +a pyramid and covered with earth, transported +from the mainland at great expense. Orange +and lemon trees, amid a profusion of tropical +foliage, are thus made to wave their fragrant +branches in the face of Alpine snows. Is not +this worth while? The truth is that Lake Maggiore +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page155" id="page155"></a>155</span> +is so rich in the kind of beauty which the +hand of Nature has provided that the creations +of man—the villas, the gardens, the vineyards, +the villages nestling close to the water’s edge, +and the pilgrimage churches high up on the +mountain-sides—seem only to accentuate the +charm.</p> + +<p>The Isola dei Pescatori, or Island of the Fishermen, +lying near the “Beautiful Island,” forms +a striking contrast. If distance is needed to lend +enchantment and conceal the lavish expenditure +of wealth on the Isola Bella, it is needed still more +to hide the squalor and avoid the odor of the +poor fishermen’s island. Yet the latter, seen from +the steamer’s deck, is far more picturesque than +its more pretentious neighbor. The third of the +Borromean group is known as the Isola Madre. +It has seven terraces, surmounted by an unused +villa. Its gardens are full of roses, camellias, and +all kinds of beautiful plants, lemons, oranges, +myrtle, magnolia, and semi-tropical trees in great +profusion. Less popular than Isola Bella, it is +considered by many far more attractive.</p> + +<p>Two villages lying farther south on the western +shore of the lake are worthy of at least passing +mention:—Belgirate and Arona. The former +was the home, in the late years of his life, of +the great master of Italian prose, Manzoni, whose +novel, “I Promessi Sposi,” was thought by Scott +to be the finest ever written. He was a man of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page156" id="page156"></a>156</span> +the people, greatly beloved by his countrymen +for his benevolence, tender sympathy, and warmth +of affection. Arona was the home of the patron +saint of the Italian lakes, Carlo Borromeo. A +colossal statue, sixty-six feet high on a pedestal +of forty feet, built to his memory in 1697, is +one of the sights of the region. St. Charles was +born in 1537. At the age of twenty-three he +was made a cardinal by his uncle, Pope Pius IV. +Inheriting great wealth, he devoted his revenues +to charity, sometimes living on bread and water +and sleeping on straw. Traveling as a missionary, +he visited the remotest villages and almost inaccessible +shepherds’ huts high up on the mountains. +He is best remembered for his self-sacrifice +and heroic devotion to the people in the great +plague at Milan in 1575. But the great saint +was a hater of heretics and caused many of them +to be put to death. Nor was he without enemies +among those of his own faith. A Franciscan +monk once fired upon him, but he escaped as if +by miracle, the bullet glancing from the heavy +gold embroidery of his cope—a demonstration +that gold lace is not always a wholly superfluous +decoration.</p> + +<p>Our little steamer zigzagged back and forth, +stopping at many villages, until finally Luino was +reached. This busy little town was the birthplace +of Bernardino Luini, the illustrious disciple +of Leonardo da Vinci, whose frescoes +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page157" id="page157"></a>157</span> +adorn many of the Italian churches. It was also +the scene of one of Garibaldi’s brave exploits, +though an unsuccessful one. Here we left the +steamer for a short ride by tramway to Ponte +Tresa, on Lake Lugano, where another little +boat was waiting. Although usually regarded as +one of the Italian lakes, the greater portion +of Lugano is in Swiss territory. Most tourists +make it the gateway from the north into Italy, +passing through its most populous town, Lugano, +which, with its neighbor, Paradiso, lines +the shores of a beautiful blue bay, guarded on +either side by high mountains, clothed with +groves of oak and chestnut set off by vineyards +and gardens on the lower slopes. To the front +Monte Caprino rises straight up from the water +like one huge, solitary rock, keeping stern watch +over the soft luxuriance of the towns. San Salvatore +is the sentinel on the right, while Monte +Bri and Monte Boglia are on duty at the left. +Lugano was the home of the Italian patriot, +Mazzini, who has been called the prophet of +Italian unity, as Garibaldi was its knight-errant +and Cavour its statesman.</p> + +<p>On the eastern side of the lake and farther to +the south is Monte Generoso. We saw it only +from the steamer, but it ought to be seen at close +range, for it is covered with woods and pastures +and commands a view of the chain of lakes that +is said to be unsurpassed in all Italy. We maintained +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page158" id="page158"></a>158</span> +our zigzag journey, however, until Porlezza +was reached, where another little train stood +ready to carry us over to Lake Como.</p> + +<p>For kaleidoscopic revelations of Nature’s +choicest scenes and rarest beauties, the descent +from the highlands to the town of Menaggio could +scarcely be equaled. The train moved slowly +through the vineyards and gardens, gradually +descending, until with a sudden turn the whole +northern end of Como burst gloriously into view. +Never was sky a lovelier blue and never did water +more splendidly reflect its azure hue. Far away +the snowy Alps gave a touch of the sublime to +a view of surpassing grandeur. In a moment the +scene changed, and Bellagio with its white villas +stood before us, separating the two arms of the +lake. Then Varenna with its solitary tower, and +finally, at the edge of the water, the village of +Menaggio itself.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> + <p class="i1">“How blest, delicious scene! the eye that greets</p> +<p>Thy open beauties or thy lone retreats,—</p> +<p>Beholds the unwearied sweep of wood that scales</p> +<p>Thy cliffs: the endless waters of thy vales:</p> +<p>Thy lowly cots that sprinkle all the shore,</p> +<p>Each with its household boat beside the door.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">So sang Wordsworth in the days of his youth.</p> + +<p>Slowly winding our way down the precipitous +slopes, we reached at last the end of the railway, +and a third steamer closed the experiences of the +day by carrying us safely to Cadenabbia. “That +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page159" id="page159"></a>159</span> +was Italy! and as lovely as Italy can be when she +tries.” So the poet Longfellow wrote to James +T. Fields in 1868. And every one who has been +there can appreciate the poet’s feeling when he +wrote:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“I ask myself, Is this a dream?</p> + <p class="i2">Will it all vanish into air?</p> +<p class="i05">Is there a land of such supreme</p> + <p class="i2">And perfect beauty anywhere?</p> +<p class="i05">Sweet vision! Do not fade away;</p> + <p class="i2">Linger until my heart shall take</p> +<p class="i05">Into itself the summer day</p> + <p class="i2">And all the beauties of the lake.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>Above Cadenabbia and reached by a winding +path through terraces of vineyards, there is a bit +of woods, made brilliant at this time of the spring +by a wealth of wild cherries, peaches, and almonds +in full blossom, and by the tall, luxuriant +growths of rhododendrons, now covered in thick +profusion with huge clusters of splendid pink +and purple blossoms. A shady spot near the +edge of the woods, where there was a table and +some chairs, made a convenient place where we +could rest after our climb, and view Longfellow’s +vision of “supreme and perfect beauty.” The +grand and majestic beauty of Maggiore and the +more modest but sweeter loveliness of Lugano +were but the preparation for the glorious, satisfying +perfection of Como, the most beautiful of +all the lakes, “a serene accord of forms and +colors.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page160" id="page160"></a>160</span></p> + +<p>Lake Como is famous, not alone for its beauty, +but for the many associations of history, science, +art, and literature. For centuries its shores have +been thickly set with costly villas—the homes of +wealth and luxury, and not infrequently of learning +and culture. The elder Pliny, whose habits +of industry were so great that he worked on his +prodigious “Natural History” even while traveling +at night in his carriage, was born at the city +of Como, as was also his gifted nephew. Volta, the +great physicist and pioneer in electrical science, +Pope Innocent III, and Pope Clement XIII were +all natives of the same place. The Cathedral of +Como is one of the most splendid in northern +Italy. The churches scattered all along the shores +of the lake, as well as the villas, are a delight +to students of art and architecture. They are +filled with paintings of great interest and valuable +works of sculpture.</p> + +<p>Historically, although not conspicuous in the +great events of the world’s progress, the lake has +been the theater of many stirring scenes, particularly +in mediæval times. Halfway between +Menaggio and the northern end of the lake lies +a rocky promontory known as Musso, the site in +the sixteenth century of a great and almost impregnable +castle. It was the center of the activities +of one of the ablest, wickedest, and most +picturesque figures in the history of Italy. His +name was Gian Giacomo de Medici, although he +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page161" id="page161"></a>161</span> +was not related to the famous Florentine family. +He is best known by the name of “Il Medeghino.” +He is described as a man of medium +stature, broad-chested, and of pallid but good-humoured +countenance, and possessed of a keen +and searching glance. He was kind to his family +and possessed the affection of his soldiers; he +was temperate and not given to the indulgence +of the senses; and he gave liberally to charity +and to the encouragement of art. But he was a +murderer, traitor, liar, and all-round villain of the +first magnitude. If San Carlo Borromeo was the +patron saint of the Italian lakes, his uncle, Il +Medeghino, was their presiding demon. He began +his career at the age of sixteen by killing +another youth—an act for which he was banished +from Milan, but which became the stepping-stone +to a successful campaign of ambition, +based upon crime and bloodshed.</p> + +<p>In those days of violence the capacity to do +murder was a recommendation, and Il Medeghino +soon rose to a position of power. He helped +Francesco Sforza, the last of that famous house, +to regain the Duchy of Milan by taking the life +of a French courier and stealing his documents, +for which services he demanded the Castle of +Musso. The price asked by the duke was another +murder, and the victim this time was a personal +friend and fellow soldier. Il Medeghino did not +hesitate, but brutally assassinated his friend. The +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page162" id="page162"></a>162</span> +duke, no longer able to refuse, sent him to the +castle with a letter to the governor, ordering the +latter to turn the fortress over to the young adventurer, +but also with a sealed letter requesting +the governor to cut his throat. Il Medeghino +took no chances on the secret letter. He broke +the seal and destroyed this message, presenting +the open letter and obtaining possession of the +stronghold. Immediately he made his power felt. +He strengthened the walls of the fort and made +the cliffs inaccessible. He made himself feared +and his authority respected. He began a career +of piracy and plunder, continuing until he became +the master, not only of Lake Como, but of +Lugano and much of the adjacent territory. His +fleet of seven large ships and many smaller ones +swept the lake from end to end.</p> + +<p>Although but thirty years of age, he was now +a power to be reckoned with. The Spaniards, +finding him dangerous and not to be conquered +by force, finally succeeded in winning him by +concessions. Charles V created him Marquis of +Musso and Count of Lecco, and induced him to +begin a vigorous warfare against his former +master, the Duke of Milan. But the end was +near. A great force of Swiss attacked from the +north and the Duke of Milan sent a large fleet +and great army to subdue the rebel. A battle off +Menaggio was lost by the pirate. He made a +desperate fight, but was compelled to yield to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page163" id="page163"></a>163</span> +superior forces. But he nevertheless retired with +honors. He was given an enormous sum of money +and the title of Marquis of Marignano, together +with free pardon for himself and all his followers. +The rest of his days were spent in the service +of Spain. When he died, in his sixtieth year, his +brother, Pope Pius IV, erected a magnificent +tomb to his memory in the Cathedral of Milan, +where all who feel so disposed may pause to honor +this prince of pirates and most unscrupulous of +plunderers, conspicuous for his wickedness, even +in an age ruled by violence.</p> + +<p>It is a relief to turn from the history of one +of the wickedest of men to that of one of the +noblest of women, by merely crossing the lake to +the village of Varenna—a town known to tourists +for its milk-white cascade, the Fiume Latte, +a waterfall which leaps in spring-time from a +height of a thousand feet. Here the remnant of +the castle of the good Queen Theodelinda may +still be seen.</p> + +<p>In the sixth century <span class="sc">A.D.</span>, the Langobards, or +Long-Beards, taking advantage of the weakness +and desolation following the long wars against +the Goths, descended into Italy to take possession +of the land. A powerful race of Teutons, +renowned for daring and love of war, they met +with little resistance. Their king, soon after, met +a tragic death at the hands of his wife, and his +successor reigned only two years. After ten years +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page164" id="page164"></a>164</span> +of experiments with a national confederacy, composed +of some thirty-five dukes, constantly at war +with each other, and resulting in a condition of +anarchy, the first real king of the Lombards was +chosen, Authari the Long-haired, known also by +his Roman name of Flavius. The chief event in +the life of this monarch was his courtship and +marriage. Having decided, probably for reasons +of state, upon the daughter of Garibald, Duke of +Bavaria, as his future wife, he sent ambassadors +to arrange the union. But becoming possessed of +a strange and unaccountable desire to catch a +glimpse of the lady before taking the final step, +he is said to have accompanied his messengers +in disguise. Fortunately for the romance of the +incident, he was charmed with her beauty while +the princess promptly fell in love with him.</p> + +<p>The Christian Theodelinda became the honored +queen of the Lombards and so won the confidence +of their leaders that after the death of Authari, +shortly after their marriage, she was invited to +choose her own husband, who would thereupon +become the king. She chose Agilulf, Duke of +Turin. Through the influence of Theodelinda, +the Lombards were brought into the Catholic +Church, and the queen herself built at Monza the +first Lombard cathedral. Pope Gregory the Great +is said to have recognized her services by sending +her a precious relic, one of the nails of the +Cross, wrought into a narrow band or fillet of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page165" id="page165"></a>165</span> +iron. Sometime later, probably in the twelfth century, +this ancient relic, combined with a broad +band of gold set with many jewels, was converted +into the celebrated Iron Crown of Lombardy, with +which the German Emperors in mediæval times +were crowned Kings of Italy. It was used at the +coronation of Napoleon at Milan in 1805, and by +the present King of Italy upon his accession. +Theodelinda’s name was held in reverence by her +people, not only for her great public and private +charities, but for her kindliness of heart. The +castle at Varenna is said to have been her home +during the last years of her life.</p> + +<p>If this story of the Larian Lake, to use its +Roman name, is being told backwards, it is because +we first saw it at the northern end, where +the interest centers in the events of the Middle +Ages. But having jumped from the sixteenth +back to the sixth century, it requires no greater +agility to skip a few more hundreds of years until +we get back to the time of Julius Cæsar, who +as governor of Cisalpine Gaul sent five thousand +colonists to the shores of the lake to protect the +region against the depredations of the Gauls. +Five hundred of them settled at the ancient town +of Comum. The city never played an important +part in the history of Rome, but remained a comparatively +quiet yet prosperous municipality.</p> + +<p>In the Golden Age of Rome, the shores of +the Lacus Larius became lined with costly villas, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page166" id="page166"></a>166</span> +where wealthy men sought a retreat from the too +strenuous life of the Imperial City. The need +of such a refuge must be apparent to any one +having even the most superficial knowledge of +Roman municipal life in the first century of the +Christian era. To escape the corruption of official +life, the endless feasts of extravagance and immorality, +and even the public amusements, where, +as in the Flavian amphitheater, 87,000 people +were wont to gather to witness vast spectacles +of cruelty, obscenity, and bloodshed, there was +need enough, and the moral, self-respecting, and +refined people of Rome fully realized it. For +there were such people, though the fact has been +obscured by history, which has to deal chiefly +with the excesses of the ruling classes.</p> + +<p>The two Plinys and their friends were brilliant +examples of the Romans of the better sort. +Though an aristocrat, Pliny the younger was a +charitable, good-natured man, who loved the quiet +of a home where he could combine study with +fishing, hunting, and the companionship of congenial +friends. He possessed several villas on the +shores of Como, but two particularly interested +him, one of which, in a somewhat whimsical letter, +he called “Tragedy” and the other “Comedy”; +the high boot worn by tragedians suggesting +the name of the one on a high rock over +the lake, while the sock or slipper of the comedian +applied to the villa down by the water’s edge. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page167" id="page167"></a>167</span> +The latter had the great advantage that one might +fish from his bedroom, throwing the line out +of the window while he lay in bed. Pliny does +not tell how many fish he caught under these +conditions.</p> + +<p>The Villa Pliniana, just above Torno, on the +eastern side of the lake, was built in 1570 by +Count Giovanni Anguisola, whose claim to distinction +lies in his participation in the murder of +Pierluigi Farnese. The villa was erected as a safe +retreat, where he might escape vengeance. Its +feature of greatest interest is a curious stream +which flows through the central apartment of +the house. Fifteen centuries before the villa was +constructed, Pliny described this stream in one +of his most interesting letters. “A certain spring,” +he writes, “rises in a mountain and runs down +through the rocks till it is inclosed in a small +dining-parlor made by hand; after being slightly +retarded there, it empties itself into the Larian +lake. Its nature is very remarkable. Three times +a day it is increased or diminished in volume by +a regular rise and fall. This can be plainly seen, +and when perceived is a source of great enjoyment. +You recline close to it and take your food +and even drink from the spring itself (for it is +remarkably cold): meanwhile with a regular and +measured movement, it either subsides or rises. +If you place a ring or any other object on the +dry ground it is gradually moistened and finally +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page168" id="page168"></a>168</span> +covered over: then again it comes to view and +is by degrees deserted by the water. If you watch +long enough you will see both of these performances +repeated a second and even a third time.”</p> + +<p>Another famous villa at the southern end of +the lake, near the city of Como, was erected by +Cardinal Gallio, the son of a fisherman, who +achieved high honors in his Church and amassed +great wealth. This villa was later the home of +the discarded Queen Caroline, wife of George IV, +who gave it the name of Villa d’Este and made +great additions to its elegance. It is now a fashionable +hotel. Cardinal Gallio seems to have had +a passion for extensive villas. His palace at Gravedona, +at the head of the lake, was one of the most +splendid in Europe. It is said that he could make +the journey to Rome, requiring six days, and stop +at one of his own palaces every night.</p> + +<p>The Villa Carlotta now the property of the +Duke of Saxe-Meiningen, is at Tremezzo, a village +adjoining Cadenabbia on the south. Its chief +beauty lies in the garden, filled with a profusion +of plants of every variety—roses, camellias, +azaleas, magnolias, oranges, lilies—all arranged +in charming walks, with here and there a vista +of the lake and Bellagio in the distance, reflecting +the bright sunlight from its white walls. +Above are the woods and the little round table +overlooking the water, where we began our survey +of the Larian shores. The interior contains +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page169" id="page169"></a>169</span> +a large collection of sculptures, but most visitors +remember only two pieces,—Thorwaldsen’s +“Triumphant Entry into Babylon of Alexander +the Great,” and Canova’s lovely “Cupid and +Psyche.”</p> + +<p>After seeing some of these palaces merely as +tourists, and learning the history of others of an +earlier day, particularly the homes described by +Pliny, we could not help wishing to see an Italian +palace which is not a show place but a home, and +typical of modern life on the shores of this wonderful +lake, for so many centuries sought by men +of wealth as the place where they could realize +their dreams of comfort and delight.</p> + +<p>The opportunity of gratifying this desire came +sooner than we expected. We had started one +morning to make a call at the summer home of +Mrs. Humphry Ward, who had leased the Villa +Bonaventura for a season. Mistaking the directions, +we entered the gate of the Villa Maria, a +large house in the classical lines of the Italian +Renaissance, standing high above the road and +reached by winding paths through a garden of +surpassing loveliness. Our ring was answered by +the Italian butler, who in response to our inquiries +nodded pleasantly, not understanding a +word we said, and disappeared. In a few moments +we were most cordially greeted by an +American gentleman, who assured us he was +delighted to see us, and would be happy to +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page170" id="page170"></a>170</span> +show us the villa. In another moment, and before +we could make explanations, another ring +of the doorbell announced two other callers, who, +as it happened, were really expected at the hour +of our arrival, by invitation to see the villa. We +had made a mistake, and in turn had been mistaken +for two other people, but our friendly host +insisted that we, too, should see his beautiful +home.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:538px; height:750px" src="images/img241.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE ATRIUM OF THE VILLA MARIA</td></tr></table> + +<p>We were standing in the atrium before a large +marble vase—a restoration of the so-called Gaeta +vase, by Salpion, a Greek sculptor of the time of +Praxiteles. The original was thrown into the Bay +of Gaeta, where for centuries it remained partially +embedded in the mud. The fishermen of +many generations used it as a convenient post +for mooring their boats, and did much damage +with their ropes. It was finally rescued and taken +to a church for use as a baptismal font, and later +transferred to the Naples Museum. The theme +of the vase is the presentation of the infant +Bacchus, by Mercury, to one of the Nymphs—a +favorite subject with ancient sculptors. Mr. +Haines, our courteous host, was justly proud of +this—the first complete restoration of this beautiful +work of art. The decoration of the atrium, +including the eight lunettes, as well as of the +entire villa, are by the hand of Pogliaghi, who +now stands at the head of the Lombard decorators. +He is the young sculptor who in 1895 was commissioned +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page171" id="page171"></a>171</span> +to design the magnificent bronze doors +of the Cathedral of Milan, a work requiring seven +years.</p> + +<p>One striking feature of the villa is its harmony +of color. Glance out the doorway, from the +atrium across the lake, or from the dining-room +toward Menaggio, or through the library windows +into the garden, and everywhere you see +the blue Italian sky, the brown of the distant +mountains, the green of the freshly budding +trees, the sparkle of the lake, and the brilliant +tints of the camellias, hyacinths, and cineraria, +combining to make a scene of splendor rarely +equaled in this good old world of ours. Then, +glancing back into the rooms of the villa, you find +the same tints and shadings in the walls and ceilings, +the paintings, tapestries, and upholstery. +Perfect harmony with Nature at her best seems +to have been Pogliaghi’s motive.</p> + +<p>Passing to the right of the atrium, we entered +the music saloon, decorated and furnished in the +style of Louis XIV, a large and beautiful room, +noteworthy, not only for its acoustic properties, +but also for extreme richness and harmony of +design and color. An arched opening reveals a +portion of a fine piece of tapestry by Giulio +Romano, dating from the sixteenth century, +which covers the rear wall of the dining-room. +This tapestry, formerly owned by the Duke of +Modena, is a representation of the old Greek +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page172" id="page172"></a>172</span> +legend of the presentation of Bacchus, the same +theme as that of the Gaeta vase. Indeed, it was +the possession of this tapestry which suggested +to Mr. Haines the idea of obtaining a restoration +of the famous vase. A striking feature of the +dining-room is the frieze of Poliaghi representing +young Bacchantes in the midst of fruit and +flowers, so cleverly painted that it seems to be +done in high relief, completely deceiving the eye.</p> + +<p>On the left of the atrium is the library, with +two life-size portraits by De La Gandara, one of +Mr. Haines and the other of his wife. Mrs. +Haines was an accomplished musician as well as +an enthusiastic collector of works of art. The +Villa Maria was designed by her as a fitting +shrine for her valuable collections as well as with +a view to musical entertainments. Since her death, +in 1899, Mr. Haines, with equal enthusiasm and +taste, has added to the collections and improved +the villa. His study is in the rear of the library. +Its distinguishing feature is a life-size portrait +of the children of Catherine de Medici, by Federico +Zuccheri. This painting is seven hundred +years old, but the colors are still fresh, and although +life-size it has the exactness of a miniature. +It was formerly in the Borghese collection.</p> + +<p>Ascending the marble stairway we were ushered +into the “Porcelain” room, containing the +most unique and valuable portion of the art +treasures of the villa. There are four cabinets +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page173" id="page173"></a>173</span> +in the style of Louis XV, containing what is +probably the best collection to be found in Europe +of rare Ancienne, Porcelain de Saxe, Old +Chelsea, Nymphenberg, Dresden, Meissen, Ludwigsburg, +and Sèvres pieces in endless variety +and bewildering richness of design. There are +fans painted by Nicolas Poussin, and others by +French and Italian artists of the seventeenth and +eighteenth centuries. There is a fine portrait of +the Duchess de Chevreuse by La Guillière and +an original painting of Louis le Grand by Le +Fèvre. A rare clock of the period of Louis XV, +made about 1750, with miniature allegorical +paintings, surrounded by pearls, stands upon a +Louis XIV desk, ornamented with elaborate carved +bronzes by Reisinger. On either side of the clock +is a fine old Bohemian vase, while near by is a +miniature of Napoleon by Isabey. The decoration +of the room is completed by a fine old piece +of Gobelin tapestry, bearing the signature of +Boucher and the date 1747, originally presented +by Louis XV to one of the queens of Spain.</p> + +<p>These are a few of the treasures shown to us +in a very brief visit to the Villa Maria. The +enthusiasm of its owner for art goes hand in +hand with a love of nature. If the interior decorations +have been done with the eye of a discriminating +artist, no less has the exterior received +the same careful attention. The fine fountain, +just within the gates, the flower-beds with their +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page174" id="page174"></a>174</span> +well-harmonized tints, the olives and cypresses, +the camellias, the cherry tree in full blossom, all +add their charm to a view which would be unsurpassed +even without their aid. For the villa +is situated at one of the loveliest points on beautiful +Como, commanding on all sides a panorama +of distant mountains, with here and there a snow-capped +peak, of peaceful water glistening in the +warm April sun, of little white villages dotting +the shores of the lake, of quaint little chapels in +nooks and corners of the mountains, of peach +trees and almonds adding a touch of pink to the +landscape, of blue skies and fleecy clouds surmounting +the whole like a brilliant canopy. No +wonder that our genial host, after showing all +the beauties of his palace, stood by the open +window and waving his hand exclaimed, “I call +this my J. M. W. Turner.” But the window +framed a lovelier work of art than the hand of +man will ever paint.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:477px" src="images/img247.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">“I CALL THIS MY J. M. W. TURNER”</td></tr></table> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page175" id="page175"></a>175</span></p> + +<p class="center fo">VII<br /> + +LITERARY LANDMARKS OF +NEW ENGLAND</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page176" id="page176"></a>176</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page177" id="page177"></a>177</span></p> + +<p class="chap center">VII<br /> + +LITERARY LANDMARKS OF NEW ENGLAND</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">The</span> quest for literary landmarks is always a +fascinating pursuit, particularly to the amateur +photographer who likes to take pictures that +mean something. I have always found a certain +exhilaration in seeing for myself and reproducing +photographically the places made memorable +by some favorite author. To look into the ground +glass of my camera and see the reflected image +of some lovely scene that has been an inspiration +to poet or novelist, is like suddenly coming into +possession of a prize that had ever before been +thought unattainable. It brings the author of a +by-gone generation into one’s own time. It deepens +the previous enjoyment—makes it more +real. When I stand before the house in which +some great author has lived, I seem to see more +than a mere dwelling. The great man himself +comes out to meet me, invites me in, shows me +his study, presents me to his wife and children, +walks with me in his garden, tells me how the +surroundings of his home have influenced his +literary work, and finally sends me away with a +peculiar sense of intimacy. I go home, reach +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page178" id="page178"></a>178</span> +out my hand for a certain neglected book on my +shelves, and lo! it opens as with a hidden +spring, a new light glows upon its pages, and +I find myself absorbed in conversation with a +friend.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page179" id="page179"></a>179</span></p> + +<p class="center pt2">I<br /> + +<span class="f90">CONCORD</span></p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">For</span> this kind of hunting I know of no better +place in America than New England, and no +better town in which to begin than the sleepy +old village of Concord, twenty miles northwest +of Boston. On the occasion of a recent visit, we +walked out Monument Street and made our first +stop at a point in the road immediately opposite +the “Old Manse.” A party of school-children +were just entering. Had we been looking at the +grove on the hillside, at the opposite end of the +town, where Hawthorne used to walk to and fro, +composing the “Tanglewood Tales,” we might +have supposed they had come to catch a few +echoes of the famous story-teller’s voice, and I +should have made a photograph with the children +in it. But here they did not seem so appropriate, +and we waited until they had gone. When +all was quiet again, it did not require a very +vigorous imagination to look down the vista of +black-ash trees seen between the “two tall gate-posts +of rough-hewn stone,” and fancy a man +and woman walking arm in arm down the avenue +toward the weather-stained old parsonage, its +dark sides scarcely visible beneath the shadows +of the overarching trees. The man is of medium +height, broad-shouldered, and walks with a vigorous +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page180" id="page180"></a>180</span> +stride, suggesting the bodily activity of a +young athlete. His hair is dark, framing with wavy +curves a forehead both high and broad. Heavy +eyebrows overhang a pair of dark blue eyes, that +seem to flash with wondrous expressiveness, as +he bends slightly to speak to the little woman +at his side. His voice is low and deep, and she +responds to what he is saying with an upward +glance of her soft gray eyes and a happy smile +that clearly suggest the sunshine which she is +destined to throw into his life.</p> + +<p>Thus Nathaniel Hawthorne and Sophia Peabody, +his bride, on a day in July, 1842, passed +into the gloomy old house where they were to +begin their honeymoon. I say “begin” because +it was not like the ordinary honeymoon that ends +abruptly on the day the husband first proposes +to go alone on a fishing excursion. Nor was it +like that of a certain “colored lady” whom I +once knew. On the day following the wedding +she left William to attend to his usual duties +in the stable and the garden while she started +on a two weeks’ “honeymoon” trip to her old +Virginia home, explaining afterward that she +“couldn’t afford to take dat fool niggah along, +noway.”</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:480px" src="images/img255.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE OLD MANSE</td></tr></table> + +<p>The Hawthorne honeymoon was one of that +rare kind which begins with the wedding bells +and has no ending. They were married lovers +all their days. Hawthorne had seen enough of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page181" id="page181"></a>181</span> +solitariness in his bachelorhood to appreciate +the rare companionship of his gifted wife, and +he wanted nothing more. The dingy old parsonage +was a Paradise to them and the new +Adam and Eve invited no intrusions into their +Eden. Some of their friends came occasionally, +it is true, but Hawthorne records that during +the next winter the snow in the old avenue was +marked by no footsteps save his own for weeks at +a time. And his loving wife, though she had come +from the midst of a large circle of friends, found +only happiness in sharing this solitude.</p> + +<p>During the three years in which Hawthorne +lived in this “Old Manse,” he seldom walked +through the village, was known to but few of +his neighbors, never went to the town-meeting, +and not often to church, though he lived in a +house that had been built by a minister and occupied +by ministers so long that “it was awful +to reflect how many sermons must have been +written there.”</p> + +<p>Let us peep through the windows of the parlor +at the end of the dark avenue and indulge +in another flight of fancy. It is an unusual day +at the Manse, for two visitors have called to +greet the new occupant. The elder of the two, a +man in his fortieth year, is Ralph Waldo Emerson, +who lives in the other end of the town in a +large, comfortable, and cheery house, which we +expect to see a little later. He knows the Old +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page182" id="page182"></a>182</span> +Manse well. His grandfather built it shortly before +the outbreak of the Revolution and witnessed +the battle of Concord from a window in +the second story. This good man, who was the +Revolutionary parson of the village, died in +1776 at the early age of thirty-three, and a few +years later his widow married the Reverend Ezra +Ripley, who maintained, for more than sixty +years, the reputation of the Manse as a producer +of sermons, being succeeded by his son, Samuel, +also a minister. In October, 1834, Emerson +came there with his mother and remained a year, +during which he wrote his first, and one of his +greatest essays, “Nature.”</p> + +<p>The other visitor is Henry D. Thoreau, a +young man of twenty-five, then living with the +Emersons. The two guests and their host are +sitting bolt upright in stiff-backed chairs. The +host speaks scarcely a word except to ask, for +the sake of politeness, a few formal questions, +which Thoreau answers with equal brevity. Emerson +alone talks freely, but his words, however +much weighted with wisdom, are those of a +monologuist and do not beget conversation. Yet +there is something in the manner of all three +that seems to betray the unspoken thought. +Hawthorne’s observing eyes seem to be saying, +“So this is Emerson, the man who, they say, is +drawing all kinds of queer and oddly dressed +people to this quiet little village,—visionaries, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page183" id="page183"></a>183</span> +theorists, men and women who think they have +discovered a new thought, and come to him +to see if it is genuine. Perhaps he might help +solve some of my problems. What a pure, intellectual +gleam seems to be diffused about him! +With what full and sweet tones he speaks and +how persuasively! How serene and tranquil he +seems! How reposeful, as though he had adjusted +himself, with all reverence, to the supreme +requirements of life! Yet I am not sure I can +trust his philosophy. Let me admire him as a +poet and a true man, but I shall ask him no +questions.”</p> + +<p>Then while Thoreau is talking, Emerson gazes +at Hawthorne and reflects: “This man’s face +haunts me. His manner fascinates me. I talk to +him and his eyes alone answer me; and yet this +seems sufficient. He does not echo my thoughts. +He has a mind all his own. He says so little that +I fear I talk too much. Yet he is a greater man +than his words betray. I have never found +pleasure in his writings, yet I cannot help admiring +the man. Some day I hope to know him better. +I have much to learn from him.”</p> + +<p>Meanwhile Hawthorne’s gaze has turned upon +the younger visitor. “What a wild creature he +seems! How original! How unsophisticated! +How ugly he is, with his long nose and queer +mouth. Yet his manners are courteous and even +his ugliness seems honest and agreeable. I understand +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page184" id="page184"></a>184</span> +he drifts about like an Indian, has no +fixed method of gaining a livelihood, knows +every path in the woods and will sit motionless +beside a brook until the fishes, and the birds, +and even the snakes will cease to fear his presence +and come back to investigate him. He is +a poet, too, as well as a scientist, and I am sure +has the gift of seeing Nature as no other man +has ever done. Some day I must walk with him +in the woods.”</p> + +<p>Every man in the room loves freedom, and +hates conventionalities. The ordinary formalities +of polite society are unendurable. Therefore the +four walls seem oppressive and the straight-back +chairs produce an agonizing tension of the +nerves. They are all glad when the call is over.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:480px" src="images/img261.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">WALDEN WOODS</td></tr></table> + +<p>Now let the scene change. It is winter and +the river behind the house is frozen. In the +glory of the setting sun, its surface seems a +smooth sea of transparent gold. The edges of +the stream are bordered with fantastic draperies, +hanging from the overarching trees in strange +festoons of purest white. Once more our three +friends appear, but the four walls are gone and +the wintry breeze has blown away all constraint. +All three lovers of the open air are now on skates. +Thoreau circles about skillfully in a bewildering +series of graceful curves, for he is an expert at +this form of sport and thinks nothing of skating +up the river for miles in pursuit of a fox or other +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page185" id="page185"></a>185</span> +wild creature. Emerson finds it harder; he leans +forward until his straight back seems to parallel +the ice and frequently returns to the shore to +rest. Hawthorne, if we may recall the words of +his admiring wife, moves “like a self-impelled +Greek statue, stately and grave,” as though acting +a part in some classic drama, yet fond of +the sport and apparently indefatigable in its +pursuit.</p> + +<p>Once more let the scene change. Summer has +come again. The icy decorations have given +place to green boughs and rushes and meadow-grass +which seem to be trying to crowd the river +into narrower quarters. A small boat is approaching +the shore in the rear of the old house. In +the stern stands a young man who guides the +craft as though by instinct. With scarcely perceptible +motions of the single paddle, he makes +it go in whatsoever direction he wills, as though +paddling were only an act of the mind. The boat +is called the Musketaquid, after the Indian name +of the river. Its pilot, who is also its builder, +quickly reaches the shore, and we recognize the +man of Nature, Thoreau. Hawthorne, who has +been admiring both the boat and steersman, now +steps aboard and the two friends are soon moving +slowly among the lily-pads that line the +margin of the river. Hawthorne is rowing. He +handles the oars with no great skill, and as for +paddling, it would be impossible for him to make +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page186" id="page186"></a>186</span> +the boat answer <i>his</i> will. Thoreau plucks from +the water a white pond-lily, and remarks that +“this delicious flower opens its virgin bosom to +the first sunlight and perfects its being through +the magic of that genial kiss.” He says he has +“beheld beds of them unfolding in due succession +as the sunrise stole gradually from flower to +flower”; and this leads Hawthorne to reflect +that such a sight is “not to be hoped for unless +when a poet adjusts his inward eye to a proper +focus with the outward organ.” We fancy that +under these conditions their talk “gushed like +the babble of a fountain,” as Hawthorne said it +did when he went fishing with Ellery Channing.</p> + +<p>But we must not linger at the gate of the Old +Manse indulging these dreams, for we have other +pleasures in store. A hundred yards beyond, we +turn into the bit of road, at right angles with +the highway, now preserved because it was the +scene of the famous Concord fight. A beautiful +vista is made by the overarching of trees that +have grown up since the battle, and in the distance +we see the Monument, the Bridge, and the +“Minute Man.” The Monument marks the spot +where the British soldiers stood and opened fire +on the 19th of April, 1775, while the “Minute +Man” stands at the place where the Americans +received their order to return the fire. The +Monument was dedicated on the sixty-first anniversary +of the battle, Emerson offering his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page187" id="page187"></a>187</span> +famous “Concord Hymn,” the opening stanza +of which, thirty-nine years later, was carved on +the pedestal of the Minute Man, erected in commemoration +of the centennial of the event:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“By the rude bridge that arched the flood,</p> + <p class="i2">Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,</p> +<p class="i05">Here once the embattled farmers stood,</p> + <p class="i2">And fired the shot heard round the world.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">The bridge is of no significance. It is a recent +structure of cement, the wooden bridge over +which the Minute Men charged having disappeared +more than a century ago.</p> + +<p>Hawthorne took little interest in the battlefield, +though he did express a desire to open the +graves of the two nameless British soldiers, who +lie buried by the roadside, because of a tale that +one of them had been killed by a boy with an +axe—a fiendish yarn which we may be glad is +not authenticated. The great romancer confessed +that the field between the battlefield and his +house interested him far more because of the +Indian arrow-heads and other relics he could +pick up there—a trick he had learned from +Thoreau.</p> + +<p>On our way back to the village we made a turn +to the left, for a visit to Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. +Never was such a place more appropriately named. +An elliptical bowl, bordered by grassy knolls, +with flowering shrubs and green groves, forms a +perfect cradle among the hills in which sleep +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page188" id="page188"></a>188</span> +generation after generation of the inhabitants +of old Concord. On the opposite side of the hollow, +well up the slope of the hill and shaded by +many trees, we came to the graves of the Emersons, +the Thoreaus, and the Hawthornes, in neighborly +proximity. The Emerson grave seemed eminently +satisfactory. A rough-hewn boulder at +the foot of a tall pine marks the resting-place of +a strong, sincere, and unpretentious character, +who lived close to Nature. By his side lies Lidian, +his wife, with an inscription on her tombstone, +which few, perchance, stop to read, but which +ought to be read by all who can appreciate this +rare tribute to a woman’s worth:—</p> + +<p class="center ptb1 f90"> + In her youth an unusual sense of<br /> + the Divine Presence was granted her<br /> + and she retained through life<br /> + the impress of that high Communion.<br /> + To her children she seemed in her<br /> + native ascendancy and unquestioning<br /> + courage, a Queen, a Flower in<br /> + elegance and delicacy.<br /> + The love and care for her husband and<br /> + children was her first earthly interest<br /> + but with overflowing compassion<br /> + her heart went out to the slave, the sick<br /> + and the dumb creation. She remembered<br /> +them that were in bonds as bound with them.</p> + +<p>Thoreau’s grave is not quite so satisfactory. +It creates the impression that the poet and naturalist +who brought fame to his family was only +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page189" id="page189"></a>189</span> +one of a considerable number of children and +died in infancy with all the rest. It is marked +with a small headstone and the single name, +Henry. In the center of the lot a larger stone +records the names of all the members of the family +who lie buried there.</p> + +<p>The Hawthorne grave is wholly unsatisfactory. +It is not easily found by a stranger, even after +careful directions. The small lot is inclosed by an +ugly fence, only partially concealed by a poorly +kept hedge. By making an effort one can peep +through and see a simple headstone with the +name Hawthorne. The most conspicuous object +in the inclosure is a big sign warning the public +not to pluck the leaves, etc., and ending with the +curt injunction, “Have respect for the living if +not for the dead.” The unsightly fence and the +rudeness of the sign clang discordantly upon the +sensibilities of those who have been taught to +admire the gracious hospitality and courteous disposition +of the man. We came to gaze reverently +upon the grave of a man whom we had seemed to +know for many years as a personal friend, but +found ourselves treated with contempt as if we +were merely vulgar seekers for useless souvenirs! +Let us get back to the village and see the things +of life.</p> + +<p>Next to the Old Manse, the most interesting +house in Concord is Emerson’s. It is southeast +of the public square, at the point where the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page190" id="page190"></a>190</span> +Cambridge Turnpike joins the Lexington Road. +When Emerson bought it in 1835, it was on the +outskirts of the village and not prepossessing. +He said, himself, “It is in a mean place, and cannot +be fine until trees and flowers give it a character +of its own. But we shall crowd so many +books and papers, and, if possible, wise friends +into it, that it shall have as much wit as it can +carry.” In September of that year, Emerson went +to Plymouth and was married to Miss Lydia +Jackson, in a colonial mansion belonging to the +bride, who suggested that they remain there. +But Concord had charms which the poet could +not sacrifice, so the couple established themselves +in the big house at the southern edge of the +village, where, ere long, the philosopher was dividing +time between his study and the vegetable-garden, +while Lidian, as her husband preferred to +call her, set out her favorite flowers transplanted +from the garden at Plymouth.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:480px" src="images/img269.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">HOUSE OF RALPH WALDO EMERSON</td></tr></table> + +<p>The first thing that strikes your eye, as you +pass the Emerson house, is the row of great +horse-chestnuts shading its front. Mr. Coolidge, +of Boston, who built the house in 1828, remembered +the lofty chestnuts of his boyhood home in +Bowdoin Square and promptly set to work to +duplicate them when he completed his new country +house. Emerson added to his original two +acres until he had nine, and planted an orchard +of apple trees and pear trees, on which Thoreau +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page191" id="page191"></a>191</span> +did the grafting. “When I bought my farm,” +said Emerson, “I did not know what a bargain +I had in the bluebirds, bobolinks, and thrushes, +which were not charged in the bill. As little did +I guess what sublime mornings and sunsets I +was buying, what reaches of landscape, and what +fields and lanes for a tramp.” To appreciate the +full extent, therefore, of Emerson’s domain, we +must next visit the favorite objective of his Sunday +walks, Walden Pond, only a mile or two away.</p> + +<p>Walden Pond is a pretty sheet of water, about +half a mile long, completely inclosed by trees, +which grow very near to the water’s edge. I +fancy the visitors who go there may be divided +into two classes: first, those who go for a swim +in the cool, deep waters, as Hawthorne liked to +do; and second, those who go to lay a stone +upon the cairn that marks the site of Thoreau’s +hut. It is well worth a pilgrimage, in these days, +to see the place where a man actually built a +dwelling-house at a cost of $28.12½ and lived in +it two years at an estimated expense of $1.09 a +month. One of his extravagances was a watermelon, +costing two cents, and this was classified +in his summary among the “Experiments which +failed!” The site of the hut was admirably +chosen. It overlooks a little cove or bay, and the +still surface of the pond, glimpses of which could +be seen through the trees, reflecting the blue sky +overhead, made a beautiful picture.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page192" id="page192"></a>192</span></p> + +<p>We must now return to the village, for there +are two more houses to be seen, both on the Lexington +Road. The first is the Alcott house, now +restored to something like its original condition +and preserved as a memorial to the author of +“Little Women.” A. Bronson Alcott came to +live in Concord in 1840, having visited there for +the first time five years earlier. Emerson at once +hailed him as “the most extraordinary man and +the highest genius of his time.” He marveled at +the “steadiness of his vision” before which “we +little men creep about ashamed.” The “Sage of +Concord” was too modest and time failed to justify +his enthusiasm for the new neighbor. He +came to admit that Alcott, though a man of +lofty spirit, could not be trusted as to matters of +fact; that he did not have the power to write or +otherwise communicate his thoughts; and that +he was like a gold-ore, sometimes found in California, +“in which the gold is in combination with +such other elements that no chemistry is able to +separate it without great loss.”</p> + +<p>Alcott was a “handy man” with tools, could +construct fanciful summer-houses or transform a +melodeon into a bookcase, as a piece of his handiwork +in the “restored” house will testify. But +in intellectual matters he fired his bullets of wisdom +so far over the heads of his fellow men that +they never came down, and therefore penetrated +nobody’s brain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page193" id="page193"></a>193</span></p> + +<p>This lack of practical wisdom came near bringing +disaster to the family. But his daughter came +to the rescue with “Little Women,” a book that +has had an astonishing success from the first. +Originally published in 1868, it has had a circulation +estimated at one million copies and is still +in demand.</p> + +<p>In the winter of 1862-63, Louisa M. Alcott +marched off to war, carrying several volumes of +Dickens along with her lint and bandages, determined +that she would not only bind up the soldiers’ +wounds, but also relieve the tedium of their +hospital life during the long days of convalescence. +When she was ready to start, Alcott said +he was sending “his only son.” Girl visitors to +the old “Orchard house” take great delight in +the haunts of Meg, Amy, Beth, and Joe, and +particularly in Amy’s bedroom, where the young +artist’s drawings on the doors and window-frames +are still preserved.</p> + +<p>Just beyond the Alcott house is a pine grove +on the side of a hill and then the “Wayside,” +Hawthorne’s home for the last twelve years of +his life. When Hawthorne left the Old Manse, +he went to Salem, then to Lenox, and for a short +time to West Newton. In the summer of 1852, +he returned to Concord, having purchased the +“Wayside” from Alcott.</p> + +<p>While living in Lenox he had written “The +Wonder-Book,” which so fascinated the children, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page194" id="page194"></a>194</span> +including their elders as well, that his first task +upon settling in the new home was to prepare, +in response to many urgent demands, a second +series of the same kind to be known as “The +Tanglewood Tales.”</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:481px" src="images/img275.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE WAYSIDE</td></tr></table> + +<p>In the following spring the family sailed for +Liverpool, where Hawthorne was to be the American +Consul, and from this journey he did not +return until 1860, seven years later. He was +then at the height of his fame as the author of +“The Scarlet Letter,” “The House of the Seven +Gables,” and “The Marble Faun.” As soon as his +family was settled in the Wayside, he began extensive +alterations, the most remarkable of which +is the tower, which not only spoiled the architecture +of the building, but failed, partially at +least, to serve its primary purpose as a study. +It was a room about twenty feet square, reached +by a narrow stairway where the author could +shut himself in against all intrusion. A small +stove made the air stifling in winter, and the sun’s +rays upon the roof made it unbearable in summer. +Nevertheless, Hawthorne managed to make +some use of it and here he wrote “Our Old +Home.” I fancy he must have composed most of +it while walking back and forth in the seclusion +of the pine grove which he had purchased with +the house. And here in this pleasant grove we +must leave him for the present, while we go back +to Boston and thence to Salem, to search out a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page195" id="page195"></a>195</span> +few more old houses, which would fall into decay +and finally disappear without notice, like hundreds +of others of the same kind, but for the +one simple fact that the touch of Hawthorne’s +presence, more than half a century ago, conferred +upon these dingy old buildings a dignity and +interest that draw to them annually a host of +visitors from all parts of the United States.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page196" id="page196"></a>196</span></p> + +<p class="center pt2">II<br /> + +<span class="f90">SALEM</span></p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">On</span> arrival at Salem we inquired of a local +druggist whether he could direct us to any of +the Hawthorne landmarks. He promptly pleaded +ignorance, but referred us to an old citizen who +chanced to be in the store and who admitted that +he knew all about the town, having been “born +and raised” there. Did he know whether there +was a real “House of Seven Gables”? Well, he +had heard of such a place, but it was torn down +long ago. Could he direct us to the Custom +House? Oh, yes, right down the street: he would +show us the way. Any houses where Hawthorne +had lived? Well, no,—he hadn’t “followed that +much.” Had any of his family ever seen Hawthorne, +or spoken of him? Yes—but he didn’t +amount to much: kind of a lazy fellow. People +here didn’t set much store by him.</p> + +<p>We were moving away, fearing that the old +fellow would offer to accompany us and thereby +spoil some of our anticipated enjoyment of the old +houses, when he called after us—“Say, there’s +an old house right down this street that I’ve +heard had something to do with Hawthorne. I +don’t know just what, but maybe the folks there +can tell you. It’s just this side of the graveyard.” +We thanked the old man, and following +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page197" id="page197"></a>197</span> +his directions, soon stood before an old three-story +wooden house, with square front, big chimneys, +and its upper windows considerably shorter +than those below—a type common enough in +Salem and other New England towns. It stood +directly on the sidewalk and had a small, inclosed +porch, with oval windows on each side, through +which one could look up or down the street. In +all these details it agreed exactly with Hawthorne’s +description of the house of Dr. Grimshawe. Adjoining +it on the left was the very graveyard where +Nat and little Elsie chased butterflies and played +hide-and-seek among the quaint old tombstones, +which had puffy little cherubs and doleful verses +carved upon them. That corner room, no doubt, +that overlooks the graveyard, was old Dr. Grim’s +study, so thickly festooned with cobwebs, where +the grisly old monomaniac sat with his long clay +pipe and bottle of brandy, with no better company +than an enormous tropical spider, which +hung directly above his head and seemed at times +to be the incarnation of the Evil One himself.</p> + +<p>How could Hawthorne, in his later years, conceive +such horrible suggestions in connection +with a house which must have been associated in +his mind with the happiest memories of his life? +For here lived the Peabody family, Dr. Nathaniel +Peabody and his highly cultivated wife, their three +sons, only one of whom lived to maturity, and +their three remarkable daughters—Elizabeth +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page198" id="page198"></a>198</span> +Palmer, who achieved fame as one of the foremost +kindergartners of America and died at a +ripe old age; Mary, who became the wife of +Horace Mann; and the gentle, scholarly, and +high-minded Sophia, who refused to come down +to see Hawthorne, on plea of illness, the first +time he called at the house, but fell in love with +him at a subsequent visit. The calls were frequent +enough after that, and before the family left the +old house to reside in Boston, the lovers were +engaged to be married.</p> + +<p>During the period of the courtship, Hawthorne +lived with his mother and two sisters in a house +on Herbert Street not far distant, and the two +families came into close neighborly relations. Of +course, we walked over to Herbert Street to find +this house, but what remains of it has been +remodeled into an ordinary tenement house and +no longer resembles the house to which Sophia +Peabody once sent a bouquet of tulips for Mr. +Hawthorne, only to have it quietly appropriated +by his sister Elizabeth, who thought her brother +incapable of appreciating flowers, though she +kindly permitted him to look at them! In the +rear of this building, fronting on Union Street, +is the plain, two-story-and-a-half house, with a +gambrel roof, where Hawthorne was born.</p> + +<p>When the Hawthornes returned to Salem, after +their residence in the Old Manse, they occupied +the Herbert Street house, with Madam Hawthorne +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page199" id="page199"></a>199</span> +and her two daughters, Elizabeth and +Louisa. This proved inconvenient for so large a +family and they moved into a three-story house +on Chestnut Street, well shaded by some fine old +elms. This was only a temporary arrangement, +and soon afterward, the family took a large three-story +house on Mall Street, where the mother +and sisters occupied separate apartments. Hawthorne’s +study was on the third floor—near +enough his own family for convenience, but sufficiently +remote for quiet. It was to this house +that he returned one day in dejected mood and +announced that he had been removed from his +position at the Custom House. “Oh! then, you can +write your book!” was the unexpectedly joyous +reply of his wife, who knew that he had a story +weighing on his mind. And then she produced +the savings which she had carefully hoarded to +meet just such an emergency. “The Scarlet Letter” +was begun on the same day.</p> + +<p>It was to this same house that James T. Fields +came in the following winter and found Hawthorne +in despondent mood sitting in the upper +room huddled over a small stove. The preceding +half-year had been the most trying period in his +life. Discouragement over the loss of his position +and the prospect of meager returns for his literary +work was followed by serious pecuniary embarrassment, +for Mrs. Hawthorne’s store of gold +was, after all, a tiny one. The illness and death +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page200" id="page200"></a>200</span> +of his mother had left him in a nervous state from +the great strain of emotion, and this was followed +by the sickness of every member of the household, +himself included. The story of how Fields +left the house with the manuscript of “The +Scarlet Letter” in his pocket is well known. The +immediate success of the novel proved to be the +tonic that restored the author to health and happiness, +and when he left Mall Street in the following +spring he was no longer the “obscurest +man of letters in America.”</p> + +<p>The old Salem Custom House is the best-known +building in the town. As we stood before it and +looked upon the great eagle above the portico, +with “a bunch of intermingled thunderbolts and +barbed arrows in each claw” and a “truculent +attitude” that seemed “to threaten mischief to +the inoffensive community,” it seemed as though +we might fairly expect the former surveyor, or +his ghost, to open the door and walk down the +old granite steps.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:480px" src="images/img283.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE MALL STREET HOUSE</td></tr></table> + +<p>I have already mentioned the apparent indifference +toward Hawthorne of a certain old citizen +of Salem—a feeling which characterizes a large +part of the population, particularly those whose +ancestors have lived longest in the town. One +would naturally expect Salem to be proud of her +most distinguished citizen, to delight in honoring +him, and to extend a cordial welcome to thousands +of strangers who come to pay him homage. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page201" id="page201"></a>201</span> +Shakespeare is the principal asset of Stratford-on-Avon, +Scott of Melrose, Burns of Ayr, and +Wordsworth of the English Lakes. Every citizen +is ready to talk of them. Not so of Hawthorne +and Salem. The town is quite independent, and +would hold up its head if there had never been +any Hawthorne. The later generation, it is true, +recognize his greatness, but the prejudice of the +older families is sufficient to check any manifestation +of enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>This old Custom House upon which we are +looking furnishes the explanation. When Hawthorne +took possession as surveyor, he found +offices ornamented with rows of sleepy officials, +sitting in old-fashioned chairs which were tilted +on their hind legs against the walls. These old +gentlemen made an irresistible appeal to his +sense of humor, such that he could scarcely have +avoided the impulse to write a description of +their whimsicalities. After his “decapitation” he +yielded to the impulse and prepared in the best +of good humor the amusing description of his +former associates in the “Introduction” to “The +Scarlet Letter.” It brought the wrath of Salem +upon his head. These old fellows did not fancy +being caricatured as “wearisome old souls,” who +“seemed to have flung away all the golden grain +of practical wisdom which they had enjoyed so +many opportunities of harvesting, and most carefully +to have stored their memories with the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page202" id="page202"></a>202</span> +husks.” Especially enraged were the family of +the Old Inspector of whom Hawthorne said nothing +worse than that he remembered all the good +dinners he had eaten. “There were flavors on +his palate that had lingered there not less than +sixty or seventy years, and were still apparently +as fresh as that of the mutton chop which he had +just devoured for his breakfast,” said Hawthorne +with fine humor. “He called one of them a pig,” +said a Salemite to me, indignantly.</p> + +<p>After all, Salem never really knew Hawthorne. +Though the town was his birthplace, he had little +liking for it, and was seldom there. During the +four years of his incumbency of the Custom +House, he kept aloof from the townspeople, most +of whom had no knowledge whatever of his literary +efforts. When the fame of “The Scarlet +Letter” had made Hawthorne’s name a familiar +one throughout America and England, the author +was no longer a resident of Salem, for immediately +after the publication of his first and most +famous novel, he was glad to seek relief from +the gloomy memories of Mall Street in the fresh +mountain air of the Berkshires.</p> + +<p>Hawthorne, though apparently glad to escape, +still allowed his thought to dwell in Salem, for in +the same year of the completion of “The Scarlet +Letter” and his removal to Lenox, Massachusetts, +he began “The House of the Seven Gables.” +The identity of this house has long been +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page203" id="page203"></a>203</span> +a matter of curiosity. Three old Salem houses, +two of which have since disappeared, have been +pointed out as originals, the authenticity of all +of which has been denied by George Parsons +Lathrop, Hawthorne’s son-in-law, who maintains +that the author’s statement, that he built his +house only of “materials long in use for constructing +castles in the air,” must be taken literally.</p> + +<p>It must not be supposed that an author need +ever describe such a building in detail or provide +for its future identification. He may do as Scott +often did, put the details of three or four houses +into one structure, taking his material, not “out +of the air,” but from recollections of many places +he has seen. It does not detract from the supposed +“original” to find that the author has made +material, even radical, departures from the original +plan. The real point of interest is to know +whether the old landmark suggested anything to +the author, and if so, how much.</p> + +<p>To those who follow this line of reasoning, +an old house at the foot of Turner Street, now +commonly known as “The House of the Seven +Gables,” has many points of interest. It is a +weather-stained old building dating back to 1669, +and contains so many gables that you are reasonably +content to accept seven as the number, +though I believe it has eight, not counting the +one over the rear porch, recently added.</p> + +<p>The identification of this house as the one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page204" id="page204"></a>204</span> +which, more than any other, suggested to Hawthorne +the idea of a house of seven gables, rests +upon two facts. The first is that in 1782 it came +into the possession of Captain Samuel Ingersoll, +whose wife was a niece of Hawthorne’s grandfather. +It passed, later, to their only surviving +daughter, Susannah. Her portrait, which now +hangs in the parlor of the old house, shows that, +as a young woman, she was not unattractive. An +unfortunate love affair caused her to withdraw +from society and to live a life of solitude in the +old house, from which all male visitors were rigidly +excluded. An exception seems to have been +made in favor of her cousin Nathaniel Hawthorne, +who, it is said, was a frequent visitor and listened +with interest to the legends of the house +as told by his elder cousin.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:477px" src="images/img289.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES</td></tr></table> + +<p>The second fact of identification rests upon +more recent evidence. The building was purchased +in 1908 by a generous resident of Salem +and turned into a settlement house. This lady, +who possesses the highest antiquarian instincts, +determined to restore the house to its original +form. In doing so she discovered traces of four +gables which had been removed. These, with +three that remained, made the desired seven, but, +unfortunately, about the same time an old plan +was unearthed which proved that the house at +one time must have had eight gables! So the +house has been restored to its full quota of eight. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page205" id="page205"></a>205</span> +When Hawthorne was calling there it had only +three gables, and his elderly kinswoman must +have told traditions of the time when it had seven +or eight, as the case may be. And so the question +of gables becomes as bewildering as Tom +Sawyer’s aunt’s spoons.</p> + +<p>Aside from this not very profitable speculation, +the house is an interesting survival of the +time when Salem was a seaport town of some +importance. A secret staircase has been reconstructed +according to the recollections of the man +who took it down a quarter of a century ago. It +opens by a secret spring in a panel of the wall +in the third-story front room, now known as +“Clifford’s chamber,” and ascends through a +false fireplace in the dining-room. It will be remembered +how Clifford mysteriously disappeared +from his room, and as mysteriously reappeared in +the parlor where Judge Pyncheon sat in the easy-chair, +dead. Perhaps he came down this secret +stairway, though Hawthorne forgot to mention it.</p> + +<p>A little shop, where real gingerbread “Jim +Crows” are sold, makes the present “House of +the Seven Gables” seem real, so that when the +bell tinkles as you open the door, you would not +be at all surprised if Hepzibah Pyncheon herself +should appear, entering from the quaint little +New England kitchen on the right. A sunny +chamber upstairs now called “Phœbe’s room,” +and a pleasant little garden in the rear, still +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page206" id="page206"></a>206</span> +further heighten the illusion and make one feel +that if this is not the real “House of the Seven +Gables,” it certainly ought to be.</p> + +<p>The conditions under which “The House of the +Seven Gables” was written were quite the reverse +of those which brought forth “The Scarlet Letter.” +Instead of obscurity, ill health, and financial +difficulties, the author was now in the full flush of +his fame, reveling in the friendship of the most +distinguished men of letters, enjoying the best +of health himself, and happy in the consciousness +that his dear wife was also well, and living amid +the most delightful surroundings, free from care +and taking no anxious thought for the morrow.</p> + +<p>The people of Salem are now preparing to make +ample amends for any neglect of Hawthorne in +the past. A committee of prominent citizens has +been at work for several years upon a plan to +erect a handsome statue upon the Common, the +design for which has been made by a well-known +artist, and a portion of the funds collected. With +this monument before them, we may reasonably +hope that future generations will be able to forgive +the frankness which irritated their ancestors, +though it was kindly meant, and eventually +open their hearts to adopt Hawthorne as their +very own, just as Stratford does Shakespeare, +acknowledging the full extent of their obligation +for the luster which his brilliant genius has +shed upon their town.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page207" id="page207"></a>207</span></p> + +<p class="center pt2">III<br /> + +<span class="f90">PORTSMOUTH</span></p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">If</span> Thomas Bailey Aldrich were living to-day +and could enter the front door of his grandfather’s +house in Court Street, Portsmouth, New +Hampshire, he would be likely to have a strange +feeling of suddenly renewed youth, for his eyes +would rest upon the same rooms and many of the +same furnishings as those which greeted him in +1849, when he returned to the old house, a lad +of twelve, to enter upon those happy boyish experiences +so pleasantly related in “The Story of +a Bad Boy.” And then, as he passed from room +to room and gazed once more upon the old familiar +sights, he would experience a deeper and +richer joy—a sense of pride, mingled with love +and gratitude, for this unique and splendid tribute +to his memory, from his faithful wife and +many loyal friends.</p> + +<p>In the summer of 1907, following the death +of Mr. Aldrich, which occurred in the spring of +that year, it was suggested in a local newspaper +of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, that the old +Bailey house, where “Tom Bailey” lived with +his “Grandfather Nutter,” should be purchased +by the town and refurnished as a permanent memorial +to its distinguished son. The response was +instant and hearty. The Thomas Bailey Aldrich +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page208" id="page208"></a>208</span> +Memorial Association was at once formed, and a +fund of ten thousand dollars was raised by popular +subscriptions, in sums varying from one dollar +to one thousand dollars. The house, which had +fallen into alien hands and had not been kept +in good repair, was purchased and restored to +its original condition, and the heirs gladly gave +back all that had been taken away at the death +of Grandfather Bailey. On June 30, 1908, the +restored house was formally dedicated by a distinguished +representation of Aldrich’s friends, +including Richard Watson Gilder, William Dean +Howells, Hamilton Wright Mabie, Thomas Wentworth +Higginson, Thomas Nelson Page, Samuel +L. Clemens, and many others whose names are +well known.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:473px" src="images/img295.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE BAILEY HOUSE</td></tr></table> + +<p>The “Nutter” house, or the “Aldrich Memorial” +as it is officially known, impresses one +with a sense of perfect satisfaction. I have seen +memorials that are barn-like in their emptiness, +so difficult has it been to secure a sufficient number +of relics to furnish the rooms; others impress +me like shops for the sale of souvenirs; +others have the cold, touch-me-not aspect of a +museum; and some are overloaded with busts, +pictures, and inscriptions intended to convey an +impression of the greatness of the former occupant. +The Nutter house, on the contrary, looks +as though Tom and his grandfather had gone off +to the village an hour before, and Aunt Abigail +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page209" id="page209"></a>209</span> +and Kitty Collins, after “tidying” the rooms to +perfection, had slipped away to gossip with the +neighbors. The visitor has a feeling that real +people are living there and is surprised to learn +that at a certain hour each day the attendants go +away and lock it up for the night.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Aldrich told us that when her husband +took her there for the first time, as his bride, the +old house made such a strong impression upon +her mind that when she came to restore the place, +many years afterward, she remembered distinctly +where every piece of furniture used to stand. +The perfection of her work is seen in the hundreds +of little touches—the shawl thrown carelessly +over the back of a chair, the fan lying on +the sofa, the books on the center table, the music +on the old-fashioned square piano, grandfather’s +Bible and spectacles on his bedroom table, the +embroidered coverlet in the “blue-chintz room,” +the netting over Aunt Abigail’s bed, the clothing +in the closets, and even the night-clothes +carefully laid out on each corpulent feather bed. +I fancy the most loving touches of all were given +to the little hall bedroom where Tom Bailey slept. +There is the little window out of which Tom +swung himself, with the aid of Kitty Collins’s +clothes-line, at the awful hour of eleven o’clock, +and tumbled into a big rosebush, on the night +before “the Fourth.” The “pretty chintz curtain” +may not be the one Tom knew, but it is +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page210" id="page210"></a>210</span> +very like it; and there is a very good imitation +of the original wall-paper, on which Tom counted +two hundred and sixty-eight birds, each individual +one of which he admired, although no such +bird ever existed. He knew the exact number +because he once counted them when laid up with +a black eye and dreamed that the whole flock +flew out of the window. The little bed has “a +patch quilt of more colors than were in Joseph’s +coat,” and across it lies a clean white waistcoat +waiting for Tom to put it on, as though to-morrow +would be Sunday. Above the head of the +bed are the two oak shelves, holding the very +books that Tom loved. In front of the window +is the “high-backed chair studded with brass +nails like a coffin,” and on the right “a chest of +carved mahogany drawers” and “a looking-glass +in a filigreed frame.” A little swallow-tailed coat, +once worn by Tom, hangs over the back of a +chair, ready to be worn again. Surely Tom Bailey +is expected home to-night!</p> + +<p>Even the garret is ready in case to-morrow +should be stormy. “Here meet together, as if by +some preconcerted arrangement, all the broken-down +chairs of the household, all the spavined +tables, all the seedy hats, all the intoxicated-looking +boots, all the split walking-sticks that +have retired from business, weary with the march +of life.” One slight liberty has been taken, in +placing “The Rivermouth Theater” in one corner +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page211" id="page211"></a>211</span> +of the attic, next to Kitty Collins’s room, but +this may be forgiven in view of the fact that the +barn, where the “Theater” really was, has disappeared.</p> + +<p>In our anxiety to see Tom’s room and the attic, +we have rushed upstairs somewhat too rapidly. +Let us now go down and inspect the other rooms +with more leisure.</p> + +<p>In the front of the house, on the second floor, +and at the left of the tiny bedroom which Tom +occupied, is Grandfather Nutter’s room. It was +too near for Tom’s convenience, and that is why +the young gentleman lowered himself from the +window by a rope—at least, that was the reason +he doubtless argued to himself in favor of the +more romantic mode of exit, although as a matter +of fact grandfather was a sound sleeper and +Tom might have walked boldly downstairs without +awakening him. Still he would have had to +pass the door of Aunt Abigail’s room at the head +of the stairs, and if the old lady had suddenly +appeared, Tom could scarcely have escaped a dose +of “hot drops,” which his aunt considered a certain +cure for any known ailment, from a black +eye to a broken arm. Aunt Abigail, it will be +remembered, was the maiden sister of Captain +Nutter, who “swooped down on him,” at the +funeral of the captain’s wife, “with a bandbox +in one hand and a faded blue cotton umbrella in +the other.” Though apparently intending to stay +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page212" id="page212"></a>212</span> +only a few days, she decided that her presence +was indispensable to the captain, and whether he +wished it or not she kept on staying for seventeen +years, and might have stayed longer had +not death released her from the self-imposed +duty.</p> + +<p>On the right of Tom’s room is “the blue-chintz +room, into which a ray of sun was never +allowed to penetrate.” But it was “thrown open +and dusted, and its mouldy air made sweet with +a bouquet of pot-roses” on the occasion of Nelly +Glentworth’s visit, and a very delightful room +Nelly must have found it, if it looked as well +then as it does now, under the skillful direction +of Mrs. Aldrich.</p> + +<p>Across the hall from Aunt Abigail’s room is +the guest chamber. An old-fashioned rocking-chair +by the window, with a Bible and candle +conveniently placed on a stand close by, offer the +visitor every opportunity to get himself into a +proper frame of mind before taking a plunge +into the depths of the snow-white mountain of +feathers, hospitably piled up to an enormous +height for his comfort.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:478px" src="images/img301.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">“AUNT ABIGAIL’S” ROOM</td></tr></table> + +<p>Descending now to the main floor (for we are +inspecting this house exactly contrary to the usual +order), we step into the large corner room at our +left. Here visions arise of Tom sitting disconsolately +on the haircloth sofa, in the evening, driven +to distraction by the monotonous click-click of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page213" id="page213"></a>213</span> +Aunt Abigail’s knitting-needles, but sometimes +happily diverted by the spectacle of grandfather +going to sleep over his newspaper and setting +fire to it with the small block-tin lamp which he +held in his hand.</p> + +<p>Across the hall is the parlor, which was seldom +open except on Sundays, and was “pervaded by a +strong smell of center table.” Here again we fancy +Tom sitting in one corner, “crushed.” All his +favorite books are banished to the sitting-room +closet until Monday morning. There is nothing +to do and nothing to read except Baxter’s “Saint’s +Rest.” “Genial converse, harmless books, smiles, +lightsome hearts, all are banished.” It was no +fault of the room, however, that Tom felt doleful, +for there is a fine, wide, open fireplace with big +brass andirons from which a wonderful amount +of cheer might have been extracted, while a piano +in one corner and some shelves of books in +another were capable of providing boundless entertainment, +had the room been accessible on any +other day than Sunday.</p> + +<p>Passing down through the hall we enter a door +on the left, into the dining-room. Do you remember +how Captain Nutter tormented poor Tom at +the breakfast table, on the morning of the Fourth +of July, by reading from the Rivermouth “Barnacle” +an account of the burning of the stage-coach +the night before? “Miscreants unknown,” +read the grandfather, while Tom’s hair stood +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page214" id="page214"></a>214</span> +on end. “Five dollars reward offered for the +apprehension of the perpetrators. Sho! I hope +Wingate will catch them,” continued the old gentleman, +while Tom nearly ceased to breathe. And +the sly old fox knew all about it and had already +settled Tom’s share of the damages!</p> + +<p>We now cross the hall into the kitchen, which +we ought to have visited first, as everybody else +does. A more delightful New England kitchen +could scarcely be imagined. This was the only +place where Sailor Ben felt at home—and no +wonder, for how could any room have a more inviting +fireplace? Here Tom sought refuge when +oppressed by the atmosphere of the sitting-room +and found relief in Kitty Collins’s funny Irish +stories. And here Sailor Ben gathered the whole +family around the table while he spun his yarn +“all about a man as has made a fool of hisself.”</p> + +<p>This is the delightful fact about the Nutter +house of to-day—every room brings back memories +of Tom Bailey, Grandfather Nutter, Aunt +Abigail, Kitty Collins, and Sailor Ben. The furnishings +are so perfect that we should not have +been surprised if any one of these old friends +had suddenly confronted us. Our minds were concentrated +upon their personalities and upon “The +Story of a Bad Boy.” The illusion is so complete +that we scarcely gave a thought to the author +of the tale until we entered the Memorial building +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page215" id="page215"></a>215</span> +at the rear. Suddenly Tom Bailey vanished +and with him all the other ghosts of the old +house. We stood in the presence of Thomas +Bailey Aldrich, the poet, the writer of a multitude +of delightful tales, and the man of genial +personality. Here, in a single large room, are +brought together the priceless autographs, manuscripts, +first editions, and pictures which Aldrich +had found pleasure in collecting. Here is the +little table on which he wrote “The Story of a +Bad Boy,” and there are cases containing countless +presents, trophies, and expressions of regard +from his friends. The walls are hung with manuscripts, +framed in connection with portraits of +their distinguished writers, as Aldrich loved to +have them. At the end of the room is a handsome +oil painting of Aldrich himself. Everything +tends to suggest the exquisite taste of the man, +his genial nature, his varied attainments, and the +extent of his wide circle of distinguished friends. +Above all, the room speaks in eloquent terms of +the affectionate loyalty to his memory that has led +his family to bring together the material for a +memorial unsurpassed in variety of interest and +tasteful arrangement of details.</p> + +<p>Even the garden in the rear of the house is +made to sing its song in memory of Aldrich, for +here are growing all the flowers mentioned in +his poetry, blending their perfumes and uniting +harmoniously their richness of color in one +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page216" id="page216"></a>216</span> +graceful tribute to the beauty and delicacy of +his verse.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:474px" src="images/img307.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">AN OLD WHARF</td></tr></table> + +<p>After living over again the scenes of “The +Story of a Bad Boy,” in so far as they were suggested +by the Nutter house, it was only natural +that we should wish to stroll about the “Old +Town by the Sea” in the hope of identifying +some of the out-of-door scenes of “young Bailey’s” +exploits. The first house on the right, as +we walked toward the river, is the William Pitt +Tavern. In the early days of the Revolution it +was an aristocratic hotel, much frequented by +the Tories, and kept by a certain astute landlord +named John Stavers. He had formerly kept a +tavern on State Street, known as the “Earl of +Halifax,” and when it became necessary to move +to the newer house in Court Street, he carried +sign and all with him. But the patriots, whose +resort was the old Bell Tavern, kept a jealous +eye on the Earl of Halifax, and in 1777 attacked +it, seriously damaging the building. Master +Stavers, being at heart neither Tory nor patriot, +but primarily an innkeeper, promptly changed +both his politics and his sign. The latter became +“William Pitt,” in honor of the colonists’ +English friend and supporter, and the thrifty +landlord began to entertain the leaders of the +Revolution at his house. John Hancock, Elbridge +Gerry, and Edward Rutledge decorated with their +autographs the pages of his register as well as the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page217" id="page217"></a>217</span> +Declaration of Independence. General Knox was +a frequent visitor and Lafayette came there in +1882. Moreover, the old tavern has had the honor +of entertaining the last of the French kings, Louis +Philippe, who came there with his two brothers +during the French Revolution, and the first +American President, who was a guest in 1789.</p> + +<p>All this glory had long since departed in Aldrich’s +day, and his chief interest in the old tavern +lay in the fact that he could climb up the dingy +stairs to the top floor and listen for hours to the +stories of the olden times, as told by Dame Jocelyn, +with whom, as she asserted, Washington had +flirted just a little, though in a “stately and +highly finished manner”!</p> + +<p>Continuing down the street, we found the +empty old warehouses and rotting wharves among +which Aldrich spent so many hours of his boyhood, +and we took a picture of one old crumbling +dock, which we felt sure must have been very +like the one upon which the boys of the Rivermouth +Centipedes fired a broadside from “Bailey’s +Battery.” The old abandoned guns, twelve +in all, were cleaned out, loaded, provided with +fuses, and set off mysteriously at midnight, much +to the astonishment of the Rivermouthians, who +thought the town was being bombarded or that +the end of the world had come. The old wharf +possessed a singular fascination for me because +I still recall how vividly the incident impressed +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page218" id="page218"></a>218</span> +me in my boyhood and how fervently I envied +Tom Bailey his unusual opportunities. Nor did +it mar my enjoyment in the least to learn that +the wharf I was looking at was not the right +place, the real one, where the guns were stored, +having been removed some time ago. It was near +the Point of Graves, the spot where the boys +went in bathing and where Binny Wallace’s body +was washed ashore after the ill-fated cruise of the +Dolphin. The real Binny, by the way, was not +drowned at all. The author, here, deviated from +the facts to make his story more dramatic.</p> + +<p>Point of Graves takes its name from the old +burying-ground, occupying a triangular space +near the river’s edge. It has quaint old tombstones +dating back as far as 1682, with curious +epitaphs, skulls, and cherubs carved upon them. +Here is the place where Tom Bailey, disappointed +in love and determined to become “a blighted +being,” used to lie in the long grass, speculating +on “the advantages and disadvantages of being +a cherub”—the disadvantages being that the +cherub, having only a head and wings, could not +sit down when he was tired and could not possess +trousers pockets!</p> + +<p>A stroll through this part of the town, which +in olden times was the center of its trade and +commerce, is like walking through some of the +old English villages. Every house, nearly, has its +history, and I fancy the streets have not greatly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page219" id="page219"></a>219</span> +changed their appearance since the days of Aldrich’s +boyhood.</p> + +<p>On the corner of Fleet and State Streets we +came to an old house, which has an interesting +connection with our story. A part of it was occupied +as a candy store for nearly sixty years. +On the Fourth of July, after Tom had treated +the boys to root-beer, a single glass of which +“insured an uninterrupted pain for twenty-four +hours,” they came here for ice-cream. It is said +that one of the ringleaders subsequently celebrated +every third of July, until his death, by +eating ice-cream in the same room. The story +was based upon an incident that really happened +in 1847, in which, of course, Aldrich could have +had no part, as he was not then living in Portsmouth. +I am inclined to doubt whether the real +event was half so delightful as the tale which +Aldrich tells, of the twelve sixpenny ice-creams, +“strawberry and verneller mixed,” and how poor +Tom was left to pay for the whole crowd, who +slipped out of the window while he was in another +room ordering more cream!</p> + +<p>No doubt we might have coupled many other +places in Portsmouth with “The Story of a Bad +Boy”—for it is a very real story, though not to +be taken literally in every detail. It is interesting +to think of the town, also, as the scene of “Prudence +Palfrey.” The old Bell Tavern, where Mr. +Dillingham boarded, ceased to exist as a public +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page220" id="page220"></a>220</span> +house in 1852 and was destroyed by fire fifteen +years later. It is pleasant also to follow Aldrich +in a walk through the streets, with a copy of +“An Old Town by the Sea” for a guide, and +note all the fine old houses he so charmingly +describes.</p> + +<p>But we must not devote our entire time to +Aldrich, for an older poet has a slight claim to +our attention. The opening scene of Longfellow’s +“Lady Wentworth,” in the “Tales of a +Wayside Inn,” is laid in State Street.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“One hundred years ago and something more,</p> +<p class="i05">In Queen Street, Portsmouth, at her tavern door,”—</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">is the way the poem opens. Queen Street was the +old name for State Street, and the tavern was the +old Earl of Halifax before Master Stavers carried +the sign over to the new house in Court Street. +It has long since disappeared. It was before this +house that the barefooted and ragged little +beauty, Martha Hilton, was rebuked by Dame +Stavers for appearing on the street half-dressed +and looking so shabby, to which she quickly +replied:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“No matter how I look: I yet shall ride</p> +<p class="i05">In my own chariot, ma’am.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>The house to which she did drive in her own +chariot, many a time in later days, as the wife of +Governor Wentworth, is one of the most pleasantly +situated of all the houses in Portsmouth. +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page221" id="page221"></a>221</span> +It is at Little Harbor, on one of the many peninsulas +that jut out into the Piscataqua, below the +town, and commands a fine view of the beautiful +river and its many islands. The house is a large +wooden building containing forty-five rooms, +though originally it had fifty-two. Architecturally +it is unattractive, external beauty of design +having been sacrificed to utility.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Within, unwonted splendors met the eye,</p> +<p class="i05">Panels and floors of oak, and tapestry;</p> +<p class="i05">Carved chimney pieces, where on brazen dogs</p> +<p class="i05">Reveled and roared the Christmas fires of logs.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">The historic building, with its great Chamber +where the Governor and his Council met for +their deliberations, still remains in almost its +original state.</p> + +<p>One could spend many days in Portsmouth investigating +its connection with the history of the +country, from the early explorations in 1603 of +Martin Pring and the visit in 1614 of Captain +John Smith, down through the settlements of +David Thomson and Captain John Mason, the +Indian wars and massacres, the incidents of the +Revolution, and the rise and fall of the town’s +commerce, and find plenty of old landmarks to +give zest to the pursuit. But our search, at present, +is for literary landmarks. We, therefore, +take passage on the little steamer that plies to +and from the Isles of Shoals for a pilgrimage +to the Island Garden of Celia Thaxter.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page222" id="page222"></a>222</span></p> + +<p class="center pt2">IV<br /> + +<span class="f90">THE ISLES OF SHOALS</span></p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="sc">It</span> is a pleasant sail down the Piscataqua, past +the old “slumberous” wharves, where “the sunshine +seems to lie a foot deep in the planks”; +past the long bridges; the numerous clusters of +islands; the white sails of the yacht club, hovering +like gulls about the huge battleships, moored +to the docks of the navy yard; the ruins of Fort +Constitution, formerly Fort William and Mary, +famed in history, but more interesting to us as +the place where Prudence Palfrey came near surrendering +her heart to the infamous Dillingham; +the ancient town of Newcastle with its old-fashioned +dwellings mingling with pretty new summer +cottages, the whole dominated by the white +walls of a huge hotel; Kittery Point, birthplace +of Sir William Pepperell, the famous Governor +and Indian fighter: and at last, the broad Atlantic, +stretching to the eastward with nothing to +obstruct the view save a few tiny specks, dimly +visible in the distance. These are the Isles of +Shoals, looking so small that they seem to be +only rocks jutting a few feet above the sea, upon +which it would be impossible to land.</p> + +<p>As we approach Appledore, the islands still seem +to be only a cluster of barren rocks, with a few +scattered buildings. The charm which they undoubtedly +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page223" id="page223"></a>223</span> +exert upon those who come year after +year does not immediately manifest itself to the +stranger. He must spend a night there, breathing +the pure sea air, watching in the early evening +the glistening lights on the far-off shore, and +finally falling asleep to dream that he is in mid-ocean, +on one of the steadiest of steamers, enjoying +the luxury of absolute rest, for which there +is no better prescription than an ocean voyage. +In the morning, he must walk around the island—it +can be done in an hour or two—threading +the narrow paths through the huckleberry bushes +and picking his way over the high rocks that +present their front to the full force of the waves, +on the side of Appledore that faces the sea. +Here he will see artists spreading their easels and +canvases for a day’s work and less busy people +settling down in various shady nooks, to read, to +chat, to knit, to dream.</p> + +<p>To get the real spirit of the islands it is advisable +to find one of these quiet nooks and read +Celia Thaxter’s “Among the Isles of Shoals,” a +book of sketches for which the author needlessly +apologizes, but of which Mrs. Annie Fields says, +“She portrays, in a prose which for beauty and +wealth of diction has few rivals, the unfolding +of sky and sea and solitude and untrammeled +freedom, such as have been almost unknown to +civilized humanity in any age of the world.” +Celia Thaxter is herself the Spirit of the Isles of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page224" id="page224"></a>224</span> +Shoals, and if we are to know and love them, we +must take her as our guide. She will be found +an efficient one and there is no other.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:478px" src="images/img317.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">CELIA THAXTER’S COTTAGE</td></tr></table> + +<p>With this purpose in mind, we began our tour +of the islands, book in hand, stopping first at +the cottage of Mrs. Thaxter. One room is maintained +somewhat as she left it, with every square +foot of wall space covered by her pictures. But +the flower-garden is sadly neglected. Only the +vines that still clamber over the porch, and a +few hollyhocks that stubbornly refuse to die, +remain to suggest the dooryard where the garden +flowers used to “fairly run mad with color.” +The salt air and some peculiar richness of the soil +seem to impart unusual brilliancy to the blossoms +and strength to the roots of all kinds of flowers, +whether wild or cultivated. Celia Thaxter was +one of those people for whom flowers will grow. +They responded with blushing enthusiasm to the +constant manifestations of her love and tender +care. Flowers have a great deal of humanity about +them after all. They refuse to display their real +luxuriance for cold, careless, or indifferent people, +just as babies and dogs know how to distinguish +between those who love them and those who love +only themselves.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“More dear to me than words can tell</p> + <p class="i2">Was every cup and spray and leaf;</p> + <p class="i2">Too perfect for a life so brief</p> +<p class="i05">Seemed every star and bud and bell.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page225" id="page225"></a>225</span></p> + +<p>Celia Thaxter loved her flowers with a devotion +born of the hours of solitude when they were +her sole companions. “The little spot of earth on +which they grow is like a mass of jewels. Who +shall describe the pansies, richly streaked with +burning gold; the dark velvet coreopsis and the +nasturtiums; the larkspurs, blue and brilliant as +lapis-lazuli; the ‘ardent marigolds’ that flame +like mimic suns? The sweet peas are of a deep, +bright rose-color, and their odor is like rich wine, +too sweet almost to be borne, except when the +pure fragrance of mignonette is added,—such +mignonette as never grows on shore. Why should +the poppies blaze in such imperial scarlet? What +quality is hidden in this thin soil, which so transfigures +all the familiar flowers with fresh beauty?”</p> + +<p>Unfortunately, the mysterious quality hidden +in the soil, assisted by the warm sunshine and the +salt air, with all their powers could not maintain +the island garden after the loving hands of its +owner were withdrawn, and the little inclosure is +now a mass of weeds.</p> + +<p>Celia Laighton was brought to the Isles of +Shoals as a child of five, and lived with her parents +in a little cottage on White Island where +her father was the keeper of the lighthouse. She +grew to womanhood in the companionship of the +rocks, the spray of the ocean, the seaweeds, the +shells and the miniature wild life she discovered +among them, the tiny wild flowers which her +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page226" id="page226"></a>226</span> +sharp young eyes could find in the most secret +crannies, and the marigolds, “rich in color as +barbaric gold,” which she early learned to cultivate +in “a scrap of garden literally not more than +a yard square.” She shouted a friendly greeting to +the noisy gulls and kittiwakes that fluttered overhead, +chased the sandpipers along the gravelly +beach, made friends and neighbors of the crabs, +the sea-spiders and land-spiders, the sea-urchins, +the grasshoppers and crickets, and set in motion +armies of sandhoppers, that jumped away like tiny +kangaroos when she lifted the stranded seaweed. +And then the birds came to see her. The swallows +gathered fearlessly upon the window-sills +and built their nests in the eaves, seeming to +know that the loving eyes watching their movements +could mean no evil. Now and then a bobolink, +an oriole, or a scarlet tanager would be +seen. The song sparrows came in flocks to be +fed every morning. With them, at times, came +robins and blackbirds, and occasionally yellowbirds +and kingbirds. Sometimes, in hazy weather, +they would fly against the glass of the lighthouse +with fatal results. “Many a May morning,” says +Mrs. Thaxter, “have I wandered about the rock +at the foot of the tower mourning over a little +apron brimful of sparrows, swallows, thrushes, +robins, fire-winged blackbirds, many-colored yellowbirds, +nuthatches, catbirds, even the purple +finch and scarlet tanager and golden oriole, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page227" id="page227"></a>227</span> +many more beside—enough to break the heart +of a small child to think of.”</p> + +<p>It is no wonder that such a sympathetic soul +could even summon the birds to keep her company—as +she frequently did with the loons. “I +learned to imitate their different cries; they are +wonderful! At one time the loon language was +so familiar that I could almost always summon +a considerable flock by going down to the water +and assuming the neighborly and conversational +tone which they generally use: after calling a +few minutes, first a far-off voice responded, then +other voices answered him, and when this was +kept up a while, half a dozen birds would come +sailing in. It was the most delightful little party +imaginable; so comical were they that it was impossible +not to laugh aloud.”</p> + +<p>To her love of birds and flowers, Mrs. Thaxter +added a love of the sea itself, finding delight +equally in the sparkle of the calm waves of summer +or the wild beating of the surf in winter. +She developed a marvelous ear for the music of +the sea—something akin to that which enables +John Burroughs to name a bird correctly from +its notes, even when the songster is trying to +imitate the call of another bird as the little impostors +sometimes do. She says: “Who shall +describe that wonderful voice of the sea among +the rocks, to me the most suggestive of all the +sounds in nature? Each island, every isolated +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page228" id="page228"></a>228</span> +rock, has its own peculiar note, and ears made delicate +by listening, in great and frequent peril, can +distinguish the bearings of each in a dense fog.”</p> + +<p>Equally well did she know humanity. The +daily life of the fishermen, the kind and quantity +of the fish they caught, the adventures they +experienced, the stories they told, the hardships +they endured, the little domestic tragedies that +now and then took place in their humble cottages, +the sufferings from illness or accident, +were all matters of everyday knowledge to her +and enlisted her profound sympathy.</p> + +<p>Everything in nature appealed to her—the +sea and sky, the sunrise and the sunset, the +winds and storms, the birds and flowers, the butterflies +and insects, the sea-shells and kelp, the +fishes and all the lower forms of life—all were +objects of careful observation in which she took +delight; and to these must be added a deep interest +in humanity, particularly of the kind which +she met in fishermen’s cottages, where her good +common sense and knowledge of simple remedies +enabled her to render, again and again, a service +in time of need when no other assistance +could be obtained.</p> + +<p>Such was the unique character whose spirit +dominates the islands even to-day,—a lover of +nature worthy to stand with Gilbert White, +Thoreau, or Burroughs, a poet, an artist, a +friendly neighbor, and a womanly woman.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page229" id="page229"></a>229</span></p> + +<p>It was a part of our good fortune to have the +actual guidance in our tour of the islands of +the only surviving brother of Mrs. Thaxter, Mr. +Oscar Laighton. In his little motor boat he took +us to the tiny island known as Londoners, where +for many winters he was the sole inhabitant. +Although advancing years have now made it +inexpedient for him to live in solitude, the little +cottage still remains ready for occupancy at any +moment. We stepped inside expecting to see, in +so desolate a spot, only such rude furnishings +as might be found in some mountain cabin or +hunter’s lodge. To our astonishment we found +it a veritable little bower, a model of neatness +and order, and every room, including the kitchen, +filled with well-chosen pictures and books, as +though some dainty fairy, of literary tastes, had +planned it for her permanent abode. Among the +highly prized ornaments were many pieces of +china, painted by Mrs. Thaxter. To our minds, +the most valuable article in the house—valuable +because of the lesson it teaches—is a typewritten +card, hanging conspicuously over the +kitchen stove, with this cordial greeting to the +uninvited guest:—</p> + +<div class="condensed"> +<p>“Welcome to any one entering this house in shipwreck +or trouble. You will find matches in the box +on the mantel. The key to the wood-house is in this +box. Start a fire in the stove and make yourself comfortable. +There are some cans of food on shelf in the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page230" id="page230"></a>230</span> +pantry. Blankets will be found in the chamber on +lower floor. There is a dory ready to launch in the +boat-house.”</p> +</div> + +<p class="noind">Three times have shipwrecked men entered the +house and taken advantage of this kindly welcome.</p> + +<p>Our next visit was to White Island, where, +after much difficulty in getting ashore, we +climbed to the top of the lighthouse. This is a +very different structure from the old wooden +building of Celia Thaxter’s childhood and only +a small part of the original dwelling remains. +But the landing is very much as she describes +it. “Two long and very solid timbers about +three feet apart are laid from the boat-house to +low-water mark, and between those timbers the +boat’s bow must be accurately steered.... +Safely lodged in the slip, as it is called, she is +drawn up into the boat-house by a capstan, and +fastened securely.” Our boat was not drawn up, +and we had to walk up the steep, slippery planks—with +what success I shall not attempt to describe. +Here, at night, the little Celia used to +sit, with a lantern at her feet, waiting in the +darkness, without fear, for the arrival of her +father’s boat, knowing that the “little star was +watched for, and that the safety of the boat depended +in a great measure upon it.”</p> + +<p>Haley’s Island, or “Smutty Nose,” as it was +long ago dubbed by the sailors because of its long +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page231" id="page231"></a>231</span> +projecting point of black rocks, lies between Appledore +and Star Island. Of the two houses now +remaining, one is the original cottage of Samuel +Haley, an energetic and useful citizen, who once +owned the island. Nearby fourteen rude and +neglected graves tell a pathetic tale. The Spanish +ship Sagunto was wrecked on Smutty Nose, during +a severe snowstorm on a January night. The +shipwrecked sailors saw the light in Haley’s cottage +and crept toward it, benumbed with cold +and overcome with the horror and fatigue of +their experience. Two reached the stone wall in +front of the house, but were too weak to climb +over, and their bodies were discovered the next +morning, frozen to the stones. Twelve other +bodies were found scattered about the island. +How gladly the old man would have given these +poor sailors the warmth and comfort of his home +could he have known the tragedy that was happening +while he slept soundly only a few yards +away!</p> + +<p>Star Island, once the site of the village of +Gosport, was in early days the most important of +the group. Before the Revolution a settlement +of from three to six hundred people carried on +the fisheries of the island, catching yearly three +or four thousand quintals of fish. All this business +is now a thing of the past. The great shoals +of mackerel and herring, from which the islands +took their name, have disappeared—driven away +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page232" id="page232"></a>232</span> +or killed by the steam trawlers. The old families +departed long since, and new ones have never +come to take their places, save a few lobster fishermen, +who with difficulty eke out a bare living. +A quaint little church of stone is perched upon +the highest rocks of Star Island, but I fear the +attendance is small, even in the summer time.</p> + +<p>We found our way back to Appledore, content +to spend the remaining days of our visit on +this the largest and most inviting of the group.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“A common island, you will say;</p> +<p class="i05">But stay a moment; only climb</p> +<p class="i05">Up to the highest rock of the isle,</p> +<p class="i05">Stand there alone for a little while,</p> +<p class="i05">And with gentle approaches it grows sublime,</p> +<p class="i05">Dilating slowly as you win</p> +<p class="i05">A sense from the silence to take it in.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">Lowell was right. The greatest charm of the +islands is felt when you stand on “the highest +rock of the isle,” looking out upon the ever +sparkling sea that stretches</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Eastward as far as the eye can see—</p> +<p class="i05">Still Eastward, eastward, endlessly”;</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">and feeling the restful quietude of the spot. I +fancy Celia Thaxter stood upon this rock when +she sang—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“O Earth! thy summer song of joy may soar</p> + <p class="i2">Ringing to heaven in triumph. I but crave</p> + <p class="i2">The sad, caressing murmur of the wave</p> +<p class="i05">That breaks in tender music on the shore.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:472px" src="images/img327.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">APPLEDORE</td></tr></table> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page233" id="page233"></a>233</span></p> + +<p class="center fo">VIII<br /> + +A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page234" id="page234"></a>234</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page235" id="page235"></a>235</span></p> + +<p class="chap center">VIII<br /> + +A DAY WITH JOHN BURROUGHS</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">“Oh</span>, everybody here calls him Uncle John,” +was the quick reply to one of my queries +of the man who drove me to the country house of +John Burroughs, near Roxbury, New York. He +had been saying many pleasant things about +the distinguished naturalist, dwelling particularly +upon his kind heart and genial nature. I noticed +that he never referred to him as “Dr.” Burroughs, +nor “Mr.” Burroughs, nor even as “Burroughs,” +but always as “John” or “good old +John,” or most often, “Uncle John.” So I asked +by what name the people called him, and the +answer seemed to me the most sincere compliment +that could have been paid.</p> + +<p>When a man has received many honorary degrees +which the great universities have felt proud +to confer, it is an indication that those most competent +to judge have appreciated his intellectual +attainments or public services, or both. When +the people of his native village bestow upon him +the title of “Uncle,” it is an indication that the +achievement of fame has not eclipsed the lovable +qualities in his character nor dimmed the affectionate +regard of the neighbors who have learned +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page236" id="page236"></a>236</span> +to know him as a man. There is a certain friendliness +implied in the title of “Uncle,” while it +also suggests respect. If you live in a small town +you call everybody by his first name. But one +of your number becomes famous. To call him +“John” seems too familiar. It implies that you +do not properly appreciate his attainments. To +call him “Mister” or “Doctor” seems to make +a stranger of him, and you would not for the +world admit that he is not still your friend. +“Uncle” is often a happy compromise, particularly +if he still retains the neighborly qualities +of his less distinguished years.</p> + +<p>I do not know that the people of Roxbury +ever followed this line of reasoning, but it does +seem quite appropriate that they should call +their most distinguished fellow citizen “Uncle +John.” He was born on a farm near this little +village in the Catskills on the 3d of April, 1837, +in the very time of the return of the birds. Perhaps +this is why he is so fond of them and particularly +of Robin Redbreast, that fine old-fashioned democrat, +who is one of his prime favorites. +He spent his boyhood here, and now, in the +fullness of his years, quietly returns each summer +to the old familiar haunts, living the same +simple life as of yore, except that the pen is now +his tool instead of the farming implements.</p> + +<p>The little red schoolhouse, where Burroughs +and Jay Gould went to school together, may still +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page237" id="page237"></a>237</span> +be seen in the valley, standing in the open country +with one of those rounded hilltops in the +background which form the characteristic feature +of the Catskills. Near by is the Gould birthplace, +now a comfortable-looking farmhouse, glistening +with a fresh coat of white paint. “Take away +the porch and the back extension, and the top +story and the paint,” said my driver, “and you +will have the original ‘birthplace.’” He said +that when he first began the livery business in +Roxbury many people came to see the birthplace +of Jay Gould, but no one mentioned Burroughs. +Now it is just the other way, and the number of +visitors increases yearly, all anxious to see the +home of the famous philosopher. Yet these two +men, one of whom seems to have belonged to +the generations of the past while the other is a +part of the ever-living present, were boys together +in the same schoolhouse more than sixty +years ago.</p> + +<p>As my conveyance drew up to the door, Mr. +Burroughs came out with a hearty welcome. He +was alone, for during the summer, when he retires +to this place for work, he prefers to do his own +housekeeping in his own way. “I am a good +cook,” said he, “but a poor housekeeper.” I did +not agree with the latter part of the statement, for +as I looked around I thought he had about all +he needed and everything was clean. Moreover, +things were where he could get at them, and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page238" id="page238"></a>238</span> +from a man’s point of view what better housekeeping +could anybody want?</p> + +<p>The house which he now occupies is a plain-looking +farmhouse, built in 1869 by Mr. Burroughs’s +elder brother. Its most distinctive feature +is the rustic porch, a recent addition, which +serves the purposes of living-room, library, and +bedroom. Mr. Burroughs is a believer in fresh +air and during the summer likes to sleep out of +doors. He has a rustic table, covered with favorite +books. When he is not at work, he likes to +sit on the porch and enjoy what he calls “the +peace of the hills.” Across the road there is a +field, broad and long and crossed by numerous +stone walls. In the distance are the hills of his +well-loved Catskills, their smoothly undulating +lines giving a sense of repose. At the right of +the house I noticed a small patch of green corn, +in front of which were some rambling cucumber +vines. In the rear and at the left were a few old +apple trees, and farther back, capping the summit +of a ridge, a fine grove of trees, standing in +orderly array, like an army ready for action. +Mr. Burroughs has named the place, in characteristic +fashion, “Woodchuck Lodge,” “because,” +he said, “I can sit here and count the +woodchucks, sometimes eight or ten at a time.”</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:530px; height:750px" src="images/img335.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">JOHN BURROUGHS AT WOODCHUCK LODGE</td></tr></table> + +<p>Not wishing to interfere with his plans, I +expressed the hope that I was not interrupting +him, when he quickly replied, “O, my work for +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page239" id="page239"></a>239</span> +to-day is all done. I rise at six and usually do all +my writing before noon.” “You are like Sir +Walter Scott, then,” said I, “who always began +early and, as he said, ‘broke the neck of the day’s +work’ before the family came down to breakfast +and was ‘his own man before noon.’” “Ah, he +was a wonderful man,” replied Mr. Burroughs. +Then, after a pause and with a little sigh—“I +wish I could invest these hills with romance as +he did the hills of Scotland.” “But you <i>have</i> +invested them with romance,” I said, “although +of a different kind.” “Yes,” he replied, with +brightening eyes, “with the romance of humanity +and of nature, the only kind to which they are +entitled.”</p> + +<p>I could not help thinking how wonderfully like +Wordsworth this seemed. The romance of humanity +and nature! Is it not this, which, since +Wordsworth’s time, has given a new charm to the +hills and valleys of Westmoreland and Cumberland, +causing every visitor to seek the dwelling-places +of the poet? And are not those who spend +their summers in the Catskills finding a new delight +in those beautiful mountains because of the +spell which John Burroughs has thrown upon +them?</p> + +<p>Wordsworth wrote the history of his own mind +and called it “The Prelude,” intending it to be +but the introduction to a greater poem to be entitled +“The Recluse,” which should be a broad +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page240" id="page240"></a>240</span> +presentation of his views on Man, Nature, and +Society. “The Excursion” was to be the second +part, but the third was never written. He conceived +that this great work would be like a Gothic +church, the main body of which would be represented +by “The Recluse,” while “The Prelude” +would be but the ante-chapel. All his other +poems, when properly arranged, would then be +“likened to the little cells, oratories, and sepulchral +recesses, ordinarily included in those edifices.”</p> + +<p>Burroughs is far too modest to compare his +writings to a cathedral, but he has nevertheless, +like Wordsworth, written himself into nearly all +of them. Following the English poet’s simile +in a modified form, we may think of the product +of his pen, not as a cathedral, but as a mansion +of many rooms, each furnished with beautiful +simplicity and charming taste to represent some +different phase of the author’s mind, and each +equipped, so to speak, with a mirror, possessing all +the magic but without the unpleasant duty of the +one in Hawthorne’s tale, so arranged as to reflect +the very soul of its builder with perfect fidelity.</p> + +<p>So sincere is Burroughs that you feel certain +he is constantly revealing his true self. Therefore, +when he praises Wordsworth as the English +poet who has touched him more closely than any +other, you begin to realize the bond of sympathy. +When he says that Wordsworth’s poetry has the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page241" id="page241"></a>241</span> +character of “a message, special and personal +to a comparatively small circle of readers,” you +know that he is one of the few who have taken +the message to heart.</p> + +<p>Wordsworth’s love of Nature was of the same +kind as the American poet’s. “Nature,” says +Burroughs, “is not to be praised or patronized. +You cannot go to her and describe her; she must +speak through your heart. The woods and fields +must melt into your mind, dissolved by your love +for them. Did they not melt into Wordsworth’s +mind? They colored all his thoughts; the solitude +of those green, rocky Westmoreland fells +broods over every page. He does not tell us how +beautiful he finds Nature, and how much he +enjoys her; he makes us share his enjoyment.” +Substitute Burroughs for Wordsworth, and Catskill +for Westmoreland, and you have in this +passage a fine statement of the reason why John +Burroughs is winning the gratitude of more and +more people every year.</p> + +<p>Wordsworth thought of Nature as an all-pervading +Presence, something mysterious and sublime, +a supreme Being,—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,</p> +<p class="i05">The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul</p> +<p class="i05">Of all my moral being.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>Burroughs does not rise to such ethereal +heights, but recognizes that the passion for +Nature is “a form of, or closely related to, our +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page242" id="page242"></a>242</span> +religious instincts.” He lives closer to Nature +than Wordsworth ever did. His knowledge of +her secrets is far deeper and more intimate. He +is a naturalist and scientist, as well as a man of +poetic temperament. He has a trained eye that +sees what others would miss. “There is a great +deal of byplay going on in the life of Nature +about us,” he says, “a great deal of variation +and outcropping of individual traits, that we +entirely miss unless we have our eyes and ears +open.”</p> + +<p>Probably no other man has a keener ear for the +music of the birds. He possesses that “special +gift of grace,” to use his own expression, that +enables one to hear the bird-songs. Not only can +he distinguish the various species by their songs, +but he instantly recognizes a new note. He once +detected a robin, singing with great spirit and +accuracy the song of the brown thrasher, and on +another occasion followed a thrush for a long +time because he recognized three or four notes +of a popular air which the bird had probably +learned from some whistling shepherd boy. He +loves to put words into the mouths of the birds +to fit their songs and to fancy conversations between +husband and wife upon their nest. The +sensitiveness of his ear for bird-music is wonderfully +illustrated in his story of a new song which +he heard on Slide Mountain in the Catskills. +“The moment I heard it, I said, ‘There is a new +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page243" id="page243"></a>243</span> +bird, a new thrush,’ for the quality of all the +thrush songs is the same. A moment more and +I knew it was Bicknell’s thrush. The song is in +a minor key, finer, more attenuated, and more +under the breath than that of any other thrush. +It seemed as if the bird was blowing into a delicate, +slender, golden tube, so fine and yet so flute-like +and resonant the song appeared. At times it +was like a musical whisper of great sweetness and +power.” I do not believe that Wordsworth or +any other poet, however passionate his love of +Nature, ever heard such a bird-song or could +describe its qualities with so keen a discernment.</p> + +<p>Mr. Burroughs made me think of Wordsworth +again when, as we sat looking over toward the +Catskills, he explained his residence at Woodchuck +Lodge by referring to his enjoyment of +the open country and the peace and quiet of the +scene. For, says Wordsworth,—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“What want we? Have we not perpetual streams,</p> +<p class="i05">Warm woods, and sunny hills, and fresh green fields</p> +<p class="i05">And mountains not less green, and flocks and herds</p> +<p class="i05">And thickets full of songsters, and the voice</p> +<p class="i05">Of lordly birds, an unexpected sound</p> +<p class="i05">Heard now and then from morn to latest eve,</p> +<p class="i05">Admonishing the man who walks below</p> +<p class="i05">Of solitude and silence in the sky?”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>After an hour of pleasant conversation my +host arose, saying he would build his fire and we +would have our dinner. In due course we sat +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page244" id="page244"></a>244</span> +down to a repast that would have gladdened the +heart of General Grant himself. The old veteran, +as many will remember, after his return from a +tour of triumph around the world, in which he +had been banqueted by kings and emperors, +dukes, millionaires, and public societies, once +slipped into a farmer’s kitchen for a dinner of +corned beef and cabbage, declaring that he was +glad to get something good to eat. Our meal did +not consist of corned beef and cabbage, but +of corn cakes, made of fresh green corn plucked +not a couple of yards from the kitchen door +and baked on a griddle by one of the foremost +literary men of America. There were other +good things, plenty of them, but those delicious +cakes with maple syrup of the genuine kind exactly +“touched the spot,” as old-fashioned folks +used to say. Mine host must have noticed the +unusual demands upon his crop of corn and marveled +to see the rapid disappearance of the cakes, +but he did not seem displeased. On the contrary, +as he brought in, time after time, a fresh pile of +the steaming flapjacks, his face beamed with the +smile that betokens genuine hospitality. Our conversation +at table was mostly on politics, in which +Mr. Burroughs takes keen interest and upon +which he is a man of decided convictions; but +this is a subject which he must be allowed to +elucidate in his own way.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:480px" src="images/img343.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">JOHN BURROUGHS AT WORK</td></tr></table> + +<p>After dinner, Mr. Burroughs laughingly remarked +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page245" id="page245"></a>245</span> +that his study was the barn, and we +walked up the road to visit it. “I cannot bear to +be cramped by the four walls of a room,” said he, +“so I have moved out to the barn. I enjoy it +greatly. The birds and the small animals come to +see me every day and often sit and talk with me. +The woodchucks and chipmunks, the blue jays +and the hawks, all look in at me while I am at +work. A red squirrel often squats on the stone +wall and scolds me, and the other day an old gray +rabbit came. He sat there twisting his nose like +this” (here Mr. Burroughs twisted his own nose +in comical fashion), “and seemed to be saying saying—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>‘By the pricking of my thumbs</p> +<p class="i05">Something wicked this way comes.’”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p class="noind">Arrived at the barn, Mr. Burroughs seated himself +at his “desk.” With twinkling eyes he explained +that it was an old hen-coop. The inside +was stuffed with hay to keep his feet warm, and +if the weather happens to be chilly, he wears a +blanket over his shoulders. A market-basket contains +his manuscript and a few books complete +the equipment. The desk is just inside the wide-open +doors of the barn, and he sits with his face +to the light. “There is a broad outlook from a +barn door,” said he, smilingly.</p> + +<p>Beyond the low stone wall, where his animal +friends seat themselves for the daily conversations, +is an apple orchard, and in the distance are +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page246" id="page246"></a>246</span> +the rounded summits of the Catskills—a view +as peaceful and refreshing as the one from the +house. Here Mr. Burroughs is never lonely. One +day a junco, or slate-colored snowbird, came on +a tour of inspection. She decided to build her +nest in the hay. She scorned all the materials so +close at hand and brought everything from outside. +Her instinct had taught her to find certain +materials for a nest, and she could not suddenly +learn to make use of the convenient hay. Mr. +Burroughs, in speaking of this, told me of a +phœbe who built her nest over the window of his +house. She brought moss to conceal it, but as the +moss did not match the color of the house, she +succeeded only in making her nest more conspicuous. +Since the evolution of the species, phœbes +have built their nests on the sides of cliffs, using +moss of the color of the rocks to conceal them. +The little bird who, like the junco, followed her +instincts, failed to note the difference between +the house and the rocks.</p> + +<p>In conversation of this kind, Mr. Burroughs +turned the hours into minutes, and I was surprised +to look up and see the team approaching +which was to carry me away. After a reluctant +farewell, we drove over the brow of a hill and +stopped for a few moments before the farmhouse +which was the birthplace of John Burroughs. A +comical incident took place. It was raining hard +when we arrived and we drove into the barn, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page247" id="page247"></a>247</span> +directly across the road from the house. An old +dog and a young one were here, keeping themselves +dry from the shower. I set up my camera +in the barn, to take a picture of the house. As I +did so, I noticed the old dog walk deliberately +out in the rain and perch himself upon the doorstep, +where he turned around once or twice as if +trying to strike the right attitude. This point +determined, he stood perfectly still until I had +taken the picture, and when I started to put +away the camera, came trotting back to the barn. +I do not know what instinct, if any, prompted the +dog to wish his picture to be taken, but he was no +more foolish than many people,—men, women, +and children,—who have insisted upon getting +into my pictures, though they knew there was no +possibility of their ever seeing them.</p> + +<p>Mr. Burrough’s permanent home is at West +Park, on the Hudson River, a few miles south of +Kingston. Here he has a farm mostly devoted to +the cultivation of grapes. He occupies a comfortable +stone house, pleasantly situated and nearly +surrounded by trees of various kinds. Back of the +house and near the river is the study or den, a +little rustic building on the slope of the hill, +where Mr. Burroughs can write undisturbed by +the business of the farm. The walls are partly +lined with bookshelves, well crowded with favorite +volumes. Near by is a small rustic summer +house from which a delightful view of the river +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page248" id="page248"></a>248</span> +may be seen for miles to the north and to the +south. This is why the place is called “Riverby”—simply +“by-the-river.” It has been the author’s +home for many years.</p> + +<p>Even the study, however, did not satisfy Mr. +Burroughs’s longing for quiet, and so he built +another retreat about a mile and a half west +of the village which he calls “Slabsides.” It is +reached by walking up a hill and passing through +a bit of hemlock woods which I found quite +charming. Slabsides is a rustic house like many +camps in the Adirondacks. It is roughly built, +but sufficiently comfortable, and has a pleasant +little porch, at the entrance to which a climbing +vine gives a picturesque effect which is greatly +enhanced by a stone chimney, now almost completely +clothed with foliage. It is in an out-of-the-way +hollow of the woods where nobody would +be likely to come except for the express purpose +of visiting Mr. Burroughs. For several summers +this was his favorite retreat. He would walk over +from his home at Riverby and stay perhaps two +or three weeks at a time, doing his own cooking +and housekeeping. Of late years, however, Slabsides +has been less frequently used, Woodchuck +Lodge having received the preference.</p> + +<p>All of these abodes, whether you see them +within or without, reveal the secret of John Burroughs’s +strength. They coincide with his personal +appearance, his dress, his conversation, his +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page249" id="page249"></a>249</span> +manner. It is the strength of absolute simplicity. +Everything is sincere. Nothing is superfluous. +There is no such thing as “putting on airs.” +Fame and popularity have not spoiled him. He +is genuine. You feel it when you see his workshops. +You know it when you meet the man.</p> + +<p>Mr. Charles Wagner, the apostle of “the simple +life,” has said, “All the strength of the +world and all true joy, everything that consoles, +that feeds hope, or throws a ray of light along +our dark paths, everything that makes us see +across our poor lives a <span class="correction" title="amended from spendid">splendid</span> goal and a boundless +future, comes to us from people of simplicity, +those who have made another object of their +desires than the passing satisfaction and vanity, +and have understood that the art of living is to +know how to give one’s life.”</p> + +<p>John Burroughs is one of these “people of +simplicity,” and his contribution to our happiness +lies in his rare power of bringing to his +reader something of his own enjoyment of Nature—an +enjoyment which he has been able to +obtain only through the living of a simple life. +He is the complete embodiment of Emerson’s +“forest seer”:—</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“Many haps fall in the field</p> +<p class="i05">Seldom seen by wishful eyes;</p> +<p class="i05">But all her shows did Nature yield,</p> +<p class="i05">To please and win this pilgrim wise.</p> +<p class="i05">He saw the partridge drum in the woods; + <span class="pagenum"><a name="page250" id="page250"></a>250</span></p> +<p class="i05">He heard the woodcock’s evening hymn;</p> +<p class="i05">He found the tawny thrushes’ broods;</p> +<p class="i05">And the shy hawk did wait for him;</p> +<p class="i05">What others did at distance hear,</p> +<p class="i05">And guessed within the thicket’s gloom,</p> +<p class="i05">Was shown to this philosopher</p> +<p class="i05">And at his bidding seemed to come.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page251" id="page251"></a>251</span></p> + +<p class="center fo">IX<br /> + +GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page252" id="page252"></a>252</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page253" id="page253"></a>253</span></p> + +<p class="chap center">IX<br /> + +GLIMPSES OF THE YELLOWSTONE</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">The</span> Yellowstone National Park is Nature’s +jewel casket, in which she has kept her +choicest gems for countless generations. Securely +sheltered by ranges of rugged mountains they +have long been safe from human depredations. +The red man doubtless knew of them, but superstition +came to the aid of Nature and held him +awe-struck at a safe distance. The first white man +who came within sight of these wonders a century +ago could find no one to believe his tales, +and for a generation or two the region of hot +springs and boiling geysers which he described +was sneeringly termed “Colter’s Hell.” Only +within the last half-century have the generality +of mankind been permitted to view these precious +jewels, and even then jealous Nature, it +would seem, did not consent to reveal her treasures +until fully assured that they would have the +protection of no less powerful a guardianship +than that of the National Government.</p> + +<p>On the 18th of September, 1870, a party of explorers, +headed by General Henry D. Washburn, +then Surveyor-General of Montana, emerged from +the forest into an open plain and suddenly found +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page254" id="page254"></a>254</span> +themselves not one hundred yards away from a +huge column of boiling water, from which great +rolling clouds of snow-white vapor rose high into +the air against the blue sky. It was “Old Faithful” +in action. Then and there they resolved that +this whole region of wonders should be made into +a public park for the benefit of all the people, +and renouncing any thought of securing the +lands for personal gain, these broad-minded men +used their influence to have the National Congress +assume the permanent guardianship of the place. +And now that protection is fully assured these +jewels of Nature may be seen by you and me.</p> + +<p>Those who have traveled much will tell you +that Nature is prodigal of her riches, and, indeed, +this would seem to be true to one who has spent +a summer among the snow-clad peaks of the Alps, +or dreamed away the days amid the blue lakes of +northern Italy, or wandered about in the green +forests of the Adirondacks, where every towering +spruce, every fragrant balsam, every dainty wild +flower and every mossy log is a thing of beauty. +But these are Nature’s full-dress garments, just +as the broad-spreading wheatfields of the Dakotas +are her work-a-day clothes. Her “jewels” are +safely locked up in places more difficult of access, +where they may be seen by only a favored +few; and one of these safe-deposit boxes, so to +speak, is the Yellowstone National Park.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:481px" src="images/img355.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">HYMEN TERRACE</td></tr></table> + +<p>The first collection of these natural gems is at +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page255" id="page255"></a>255</span> +Mammoth Hot Springs, and here my camera, as +if by instinct, led me quickly to the daintiest in +form and most delicate in colorings of them all, +a beautiful formation known as Hymen Terrace. +A series of steps, covering a circular area of perhaps +one hundred feet in diameter, has been +formed by the overflow of a hot spring. The +terraces consist of a series of semicircular and +irregular curves or scallops, like a combination +of hundreds of richly carved pulpits, wrought in +a soft, white substance resembling coral. Little +pools of glistening water reflect the sunlight from +the tops of the steps, while a gently flowing +stream spreads imperceptibly over about one half +the surface, sprinkling it with millions of diamonds +as the altar of Hymen ought to be. The +pools are greens and blues of many shades, varying +with the depth of the water. The sides of the +steps are pure white in the places where the water +has ceased to flow, but beneath the thin stream +they range in color from a rich cream to a deep +brown, with all the intermediate shades harmoniously +blended. From the highest pools, and +especially from the largest one at the very summit +of the mound, rise filmy veils of steam, softening +the exquisite tints into a rich harmony of +color against the azure of the sky.</p> + +<p>The Terrace of Hymen is the most exquisite +of the formations, but there are others much +larger and more magnificent. Minerva Terrace +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page256" id="page256"></a>256</span> +gave me a foreground for a charming picture. +Beyond its richly colored steps and sparkling +pools were the splendid summits of the Gallatin +Range towering more than ten thousand feet +above the level of the sea and seeming, in the +clear mountain air, to be much nearer than they +really are. Hovering above their peaks were piles +upon piles of foamy clouds, through which could +be seen a background of the bluest of skies, +while down below were the gray stone buildings +with their bright red roofs that form the headquarters +of the army guarding the park.</p> + +<p>Jupiter Terrace, the most imposing of all these +formations, extends a quarter of a mile along the +edge of a brilliantly colored mound, rising about +three hundred feet above the plain upon which +Fort Yellowstone is built. Pulpit Terrace, on +its eastern slope, reproduces upon a larger scale +the rich carvings and exquisite tints of Hymen, +though without the symmetry of structure. The +springs at its summit are among the most strikingly +beautiful of these unique formations which +I like to call the “jewels” of Nature. Two large +pools of steaming water lie side by side, apparently +identical in structure, and separated only +by a narrow ridge of lime. The one on the +left is a clear turquoise blue, while its neighbor +is distinctly Nile green. Surrounding these +springs are several smaller pools, one a rich +orange color, another light brown, and a third +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page257" id="page257"></a>257</span> +brown of a much darker hue. The edges of all +are tinted in yellow, brown, and gold of varied +shades. The pools are apparently all a part of +the same spring or group of springs, and subject +to the same conditions of light; yet I noticed at +least five distinct colors in as many pools. The +water itself is colorless and the different hues +must be imparted by the colorings of the lime +deposits, influenced by the varying depth and +temperature of the water.</p> + +<p>What is known as “the formation” of the +Mammoth Hot Springs covers perhaps fifty or +sixty acres on the slope of Terrace Mountain. It +is a heavy deposit of lime or travertine, essentially +the same as the stalagmites and stalactites +which one sees in certain caverns. When dry it +is white and soft like chalk. The colorings of +the terraces are of vegetable origin, caused by a +thin, velvety growth, botanically classed as algæ, +which flourishes only in warm water. The heat +of rocks far beneath the surface warms the water +of the springs, which, passing through a bed of +limestone, brings to the surface a deposit of pure +calcium carbonate. Wherever the flow of water +remains warm the algæ appear and tint the growing +formation with as many shades of brown as +there are varying temperatures of the water. +When the water is diverted, as is likely to happen +from one season to the next, the algæ die +and the surfaces become a chalky white.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page258" id="page258"></a>258</span></p> + +<p>Leaving the Hot Springs, the road passes +through the Golden Gate, where, on one side, a +perpendicular wall of rock rises to a height of +two hundred feet or more, and on the other are +the wooded slopes and rocky summit of Bunsen +Peak—a beautiful cañon, where the view suggests +the greater glories of Swiss mountain scenery, +but for that very reason is not to be mentioned +here among the rare gems of the park. +Nor shall I include the “Hoodoos,” which, +though distinctly unusual, are far from beautiful. +An area of many acres is covered with huge +fragments of massive rocks, piled in disorderly +confusion, as though some Cyclops, in a fit of +ugly temper, had torn away the whole side of a +mountain and scattered the pieces. Through +these rocks project the whitened trunks of thousands +of dead trees,—a sort of ghostly nightmare +through which we were glad to pass as +quickly as possible.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:479px" src="images/img361.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">PULPIT TERRACE</td></tr></table> + +<p>We stopped for lunch at the Norris Geyser +Basin, and here saw some miniature geysers, as +a kind of preparation for the greater ones beyond. +The “Constant,” true to its name, throws +up a pretty little white fountain so often that it +seems to prepare for a new eruption almost before +the previous one has subsided. The “Minute +Man” is always on duty and pops up his little +spray of hot water, fifteen feet high, every minute +or two. The “Monarch,” near by, is much +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page259" id="page259"></a>259</span> +larger, but not at all pretty. It throws up a +stream of black, muddy water seventy-five to one +hundred feet high about every forty minutes.</p> + +<p>Some of these geysers are steady old fellows +who have found their appointed task in life and +have settled down to perform it with commendable +regularity. The Norris Basin, however, seems +to be the favorite playground of the youngsters,—a +frisky lot of geysers of no fixed habits and +a playful disposition to burst out in unexpected +places. Such is the New Crater, which asserted +itself with a great commotion in 1891, bursting +forth with the violence of an earthquake. Another +erratic young fellow is the “Fountain Geyser,” +in the Lower Basin. In July, 1899, he was +seized with a fit of the “sulks” and for three +months refused to play at all. In October he decided +to resume operations and behaved quite +well for ten years, when he suddenly took a +notion to abandon his crater for the apartments +of his neighbor next door. Apparently the furnishings +of his new abode did not suit him, for +he began at once to throw them out with great +violence, hurling huge masses of rock with volcanic +force to a height of two hundred feet. +Amid terrific rumblings and the hissing of escaping +steam, this angry outburst continued for several +days, and did not wholly cease for nearly +two months. Since then the “Fountain” has +settled down to the ordinary daily occupation of +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page260" id="page260"></a>260</span> +a self-respecting geyser. When I saw him he was +as calm and serene as a summer’s day, and to all +appearances had never been guilty of mischief, +nor even exhibited a ruffled temper in all his +life. Indeed, had I not known his history (inconceivable +in one of the gentler sex), I should +have personified this geyser in the feminine +gender, because of his exquisite beauty. A great +jewel seemed to be set into the surface of the +earth. Its smooth upper face, about thirty feet +in diameter, was level with the ground upon +which we stood. Its color, at first glance, seemed +to be a rich turquoise blue, but as we looked into +the clear, transparent depths there seemed to be +a hundred other shades of blue, all blending harmoniously. +In the farthest corner, beneath a shelf +or mound of geyserite, appeared the opening of +a fathomless cave. All around its edges, and +continuing in wavy lines of delicate tracery +around the bottom of the bowl, were marvelous +patterns of exquisite lacework, every angle seeming +to catch and throw back its own particular +ray of bluish light. There was not a ripple to +disturb the surface, not a bubble to foretell the +violent eruption which a few hours would bring +forth, and only a thin film of vapor to suggest +faintly the extraordinary character of this beautiful +pool.</p> + +<p>Only a few hundred feet away is another curious +phenomenon in this region of surprises. It +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page261" id="page261"></a>261</span> +is a cauldron of boiling mud, measuring forty or +fifty feet in diameter, known as the “Mammoth +Paint Pots,” where a mass of clay is kept in a +state of continuous commotion. Millions of bubbles +rise to the surface and explode, sputtering +like a thick mess of porridge kept at the boiling +point. The color is a creamy white where the +ebullition is greatest, but thick masses thrown +up around the edges and allowed to cool have +assumed a delicate shade of pink. A smaller but +more beautiful formation of the same kind is seen +near the Thumb Station on the Yellowstone Lake.</p> + +<p>As we proceeded, Nature’s jewels seemed to +increase in number and magnificence. Turquoise +Spring, a sheet of water one hundred feet wide, +has all the beauty of the Fountain Geyser in the +latter’s quiet state, with an added reputation for +tranquillity, for it is not a geyser at all. Near by +is Prismatic Lake, about four hundred feet long +and two hundred and fifty feet wide. Its center +is a very deep blue, changing to green of varying +shades, and finally, in the shallowest parts, to +yellow, orange, and brown. It is a great spring +from the center of which the water flows in delicate, +wavy ringlets. The mineral deposits have +formed countless scallops, like miniature terraces, +a few inches high, sculpturing a wonderful pattern +in hues of reds, purples, and browns, delicately +imposed upon a background of gray. A +thin veil of rising steam was carried away by the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page262" id="page262"></a>262</span> +wind just enough to reveal the wonderful colorings +to our eyes, while the sun added to the bewildering +beauty of the spectacle by changing +the vapor into a million prisms reflecting all the +colors of the rainbow.</p> + +<p>In this connection I must not fail to mention +the Morning-Glory Spring, where the action of +a geyser has carved out a deep bowl, twenty feet +in diameter. It would seem as though Nature had +sunk a gigantic morning-glory into the earth, +leaving its rim flush with the surface and yet retaining, +clearly visible beneath the smooth surface +of the transparent water, all the delicate shades +of the original flower.</p> + +<p>The Sapphire Spring, not far away, is another +of the little gems of the region. It is a small, +pulsating spring, and the jewel itself is not less +remarkable than its extraordinary setting, resembling +coral. The constant flow of the waters from +a center to all directions has caused the formation +of a series of irregular concentric circles, +broken into little knobs or mounds, from which +the vicinity takes its name of the “Biscuit Basin.”</p> + +<p>As we approached the Upper Geyser Region, +the number and variety of these highly colored +pools, hot springs, geysers, and strange formations +increased steadily, until at last we stood +in the presence of “Old Faithful,” the crown +jewel of the collection, the Koh-i-noor of Nature’s +casket.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page263" id="page263"></a>263</span></p> + +<p>A strong breeze from the north was blowing +as I stood before the geyser for the first time, and +for that reason, I decided to place my camera +directly to the west. A small cloud of steam was +rising, which seemed gradually to increase in +volume. Then, as I watched, a small spray of +water would shoot up occasionally above the rim +of the crater. Then a puff of steam and another +spray, breaking into globules as the wind carried +it away. Then silence. Suddenly a large, full +stream shot up a distance of twenty or thirty feet +and fell back again, and the crater remained +quiet for at least five minutes. Is that all? I +thought. Does its boasted regularity only mean +that while it plays once in sixty-five minutes, yet +the height of some of the eruptions may be only +trifling? I began to feel doubtful, not to say disappointed. +The column of steam seemed smaller, +and I wondered if I should have to wait another +hour for a real eruption, when suddenly the lazily +drifting cloud became a giant, like the genie in +the Arabian Nights. Up into the air shot a huge +column of water, followed instantly by another +still higher, then another, until in a moment or +two there towered above the earth a gigantic column +of boiling water one hundred and fifty feet +high. Straight as a flagstaff it seemed on the left, +while to the right rolled the waving folds of a +huge white banner, obscuring the blue of the +sky in one great mass of snowy vapor. For several +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page264" id="page264"></a>264</span> +minutes the puffs of steam rolled up, and the +fountain continued to play. Then, little by little, +its form grew less, its force weakened, and at last +there was only the little lazy pillar of vapor outlined +against the distant hills.</p> + +<p>Again and again during the day I watched it +with an ever-increasing sense of fascination, +which reached its climax in the evening, when the +eruption was lighted by the powerful search-light +on the hotel. As the great clouds of steam rolled +up, the strong light seemed to impart a vast +variety of colors, ranging from rich cream to +yellow, orange, brown, and purple, blended harmoniously +but ever changing like the rich silk +robes of some Oriental potentate,—a spectacle +of bewildering beauty, defying the power of pen +to describe or brush to paint.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:509px; height:720px" src="images/img369.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">OLD FAITHFUL</td></tr></table> + +<p>There are other geysers greater than “Old +Faithful.” “The Giant” plays to a height of +two hundred and fifty feet, and the “Grand” +and “Beehive” nearly as high; the “Grotto” +has a more fantastic crater; the “Castle” has +the largest cone, and with its beautifully colored +“Castle Well” is more unique; and the “Riverside,” +which plays a stream diagonally across the +Firehole River, makes a more striking scenic display. +But all of these play at irregular intervals +and with far less frequency, varying from a few +hours to ten or twelve days between eruptions. +On the other hand, the regularity with which +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page265" id="page265"></a>265</span> +“Old Faithful” sends his straight, magnificent +column to the skies is fascinating beyond description. +Every sixty-five or seventy minutes, never +varying more than five minutes, day and night, +in all seasons and every kind of weather, “Old +Faithful” has steadily performed his task since +first discovered in 1870 until the present time, +and no man can tell for how many centuries before.</p> + +<table class="reg f90" summary="poem"><tr><td> <div class="poemr"> +<p>“O! Fountain of the Wilderness! Eternal Mystery!</p> +<p class="i05">Whence came thy wondrous power?</p> +<p class="i05">For ages,—long before the eye of Man</p> +<p class="i05">Found access to thy charm, thou’st played</p> +<p class="i05">Thy stream of marvelous beauty.</p> +<p class="i05">In midnight dark no less than glorious day,</p> +<p class="i05">In wintry storms as well as summer’s calm,</p> +<p class="i05">Oblivious to the praise of men,</p> +<p class="i05">Each hour to Heaven thou hast raised</p> +<p class="i05">Thine offering pure, of dazzling white.</p> +<p class="i05">Thy Maker’s eye alone has seen</p> +<p class="i05">The tribute of thy faithfulness,</p> +<p class="i05">And thou hast been content to play thy part</p> +<p class="i05">In Nature’s solitude.”</p> +</div> </td></tr></table> + +<p>Not alone as the guardian of Nature’s jewels +is the Yellowstone National Park remarkable. +Even if the wonderful geysers, hot springs, and +many-colored pools were taken away,—locked +up in a strong box and hidden from sight as +jewels often are,—the more familiar phases of +natural scenery, such as mountains, rivers, lakes, +and waterfalls would make it one of the wonder-places +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page266" id="page266"></a>266</span> +of America. On the eastern boundary is the +great Absaroka Range, with peaks rising over +10,000 feet. In the northwest corner is the Gallatin +Range, dominated by the Electric Peak, 11,155 +feet high, covered with snow, and so charged +with electricity as to make the surveyor’s transit +almost useless. The Yellowstone and Gardiner +Rivers, which join at the northern boundary, are +separated within the park by a range of mountains +of which the highest is Mount Washburne +(10,350 feet), named for the leader of the expedition +of 1870. Farther south, and midway between +the Upper Geyser Basin and the Yellowstone +Lake, is the Continental Divide. The road passes +between two small lakes, one of which discharges +its waters into the Atlantic Ocean by way of the +Yellowstone, the Missouri, and the Gulf of Mexico, +while the other flows into the Pacific through +Snake River and the Columbia. From a point a +few miles to the east Lake Shoshone may be seen +far below, and seeming to tower directly above +it, but really fifty miles away, just beyond the +southern boundary of the park, are the three +sentinels of the Teton Range, the highest 13,741 +feet above the sea. The entire park is in the heart +of the Rocky Mountains, its lowest level being +over 6000 feet elevation.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:477px" src="images/img373.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE GROTTO GEYSER</td></tr></table> + +<p>The park is full of lakes and streams varying +in size from the hundreds of little pools and +brooks, hidden away among the rocks, to the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page267" id="page267"></a>267</span> +great Yellowstone Lake, twenty miles in width, +and the picturesque river of the same name. +Here and there are beautiful cascades which one +would go miles to see anywhere else, but the +surfeited travelers give them only a careless +glance as the stages pass without stopping. The +Kepler Cascades tumble over the rocks in a series +of falls of more than a hundred feet, making +a charming veil of white lace, against a dark +background of rocks and pines. The Gibbon +Falls, eighty feet high, are nearly as attractive, +while the little Rustic Falls, of sixty feet, in +Golden Gate Cañon, are really quite delightful. +These, and many others, are passed in comparative +indifference, for the traveler has already +seen many wonderful sights and knows that +greater ones are yet in store. His anticipations +are realized with good measure running over, +when at last he catches his first glimpse of the +great Cañon of the Yellowstone.</p> + +<p>With us this glimpse came at the Upper Falls, +where the Yellowstone River suddenly drops +one hundred and twelve feet, suggesting the +American Fall at Niagara, though the volume of +water is not so great. It is more beautiful, however, +because of the wildness of the scenery. +Lower down, the river takes another drop, falling +to the very bottom of the cañon. Here the +cataract is more than twice the height of Niagara, +and though lacking the width of the stream +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page268" id="page268"></a>268</span> +that makes the latter so impressive, is in every +respect far more beautiful.</p> + +<p>One must stand near the edge of the rocks at +Inspiration Point to grasp the full majesty of +the scene. We are now three miles below the +Great Falls. The Upper Fall, which at close +range is a great, beautiful white sheet of water, +rolling with imperial force over a rocky precipice, +seems only a trifling detail in the vast picture—a +mere touch of dazzling white where all +else is in color. At the bottom is the blue of the +river, broken here and there into foamy white +waves. Pines and mosses contribute touches of +green. The rocky cliffs are yellow and gold, +deepening into orange. In the distance a great +rock of crimson stands like a fortress, with arched +doorway, through which is seen a vista of green +fields. But this is an optical illusion, as a strong +glass will reveal. The doorway is only a pointed +fir, which the distance has softened into the +shadow of a pointed arch. Mediæval castles rear +their buttressed fronts on inaccessible slopes. +Cathedral spires, as majestic as those of Cologne, +and numerous as the minarets of Milan, stand +out in bold relief. Away down below is an eagle’s +nest, into which we can look and see the birds, +yet it is perched upon a pinnacle so high that if +one were to stand at the level of the river and +look up, it would tower above him higher than +the tallest building in the world.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:482px" src="images/img377.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE CAÑON OF THE YELLOWSTONE RIVER</td></tr></table> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page269" id="page269"></a>269</span></p> + +<p>Not a sign of the handiwork of man appears +in any direction. The gorgeous spectacle, reveling +in all the hues of the rainbow, is just as Nature +made it—let the geologist say, if he can, +how many thousands of years ago. And above all +this splendid panorama, unequaled save by the +glory of the sunset sky, is that same rich blue +which Nature employs to add the final touch of +loveliness to all her greatest works, and yet reserves +enough to beautify the more familiar +scenes at home.</p> + + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page270" id="page270"></a>270</span></p> + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page271" id="page271"></a>271</span></p> + +<p class="center fo">X<br /> + +THE GRAND CAÑON OF ARIZONA</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page272" id="page272"></a>272</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page273" id="page273"></a>273</span></p> + +<p class="chap center">X<br /> + +THE GRAND CAÑON OF ARIZONA</p> + +<p class="noind"><span class="chap1 sc">I arrived</span> at the cañon on a cold night in +January, 1903, alone. There were few guests +at the hotel, which was a capacious log cabin, +with long, single-storied frame structures projecting +in various directions, to serve the purposes +of sleeping-rooms and kitchens. It had a primitive +look, far more in keeping with the solitude +of its surroundings than the present comfortable +hotel. An old guide (I hoped he might be John +Hance) sat by the fire talking with a group of +loungers, and I sauntered near enough to hear +the conversation, expecting to listen to some +good tale of the cañon. But the talk was commonplace. +Presently an Indian came in accompanied +by a young squaw. He was said to be +a hundred years old—a fact no doubt easily +proved by the layers of dirt on his face and +hands, if one could count them like the rings on +a tree. He proved to be only a lazy old beggar +and quite unromantic. The hotel management +did not provide Indian dances and other forms +of amusement then as now and I was obliged to +spend a dull evening. I read the guidebooks and +reached the conclusion that the cañon was not +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page274" id="page274"></a>274</span> +worth visiting if one did not go “down the +trail” to the bottom of it. So I inquired at the +desk when the party would start in the morning, +and was dismayed to be told that there would +be none unless somebody wanted to go. I was +told to put my name on the “list” and no doubt +others would see it and we might “get up” a +party. I therefore boldly signed my name at the +top of a white sheet of paper, feeling much like +a decoy, and awaited results. Again and again +during the lonesome evening I sauntered over +to the desk, but not one of the few guests had +shown the slightest interest. At ten o’clock my +autograph still headed an invisible list, as lonely +as the man for whom it stood, and I went to +bed, vowing to myself that if I could get only +one companion, besides the guide, I would go +down the trail.</p> + +<p>It was still dark when I heard the strident +voice of a Japanese porter calling through the +corridor, “Brek-foos! Brek-foos”! and I rose +quickly. The dawn was just breaking as I stepped +out into the chill air and walked to the edge of +the great chasm. Before me rolled a sea of vapor. +It was as though a massive curtain of clouds had +been let down from the sky to protect the cañon +in the night. The spectacle was not to be exhibited +until the proper hour arrived. The great +white ocean stretched away to the north as far +as the eye could reach, filling every nook and +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page275" id="page275"></a>275</span> +corner of the vast depression. In the east the +rosy tints of the morning brightened the sky. +Suddenly a ray of light illumined what appeared +to be a rock, far out in the filmy ocean, and the +black mass blazed with the ruddy hue. The tip +of another great butte suddenly projected itself +and caught another ray of light. One by one +the rugged domes of the great rock temples of +Brahma and Buddha and Zoroaster and Isis, as +they are called, peeped into view as the mists +gradually disappeared, catching the morning +sunbeams at a thousand different angles, and +throwing back a kaleidoscope of purples, blues, +reds, and yellows, until at last the whole superb +cañon was revealed in a burst of color, over which +the amethyst reigned supreme.</p> + +<p>How long I should have stood enraptured before +this scene of superlative grandeur, so marvelously +unfolded to the sight, I do not know, +had not the more prosaic call of “Brek-foos!” +long since forgotten, again resounded to bring +me back to human levels. I returned to the hotel +and entered the breakfast-room, with an appetite +well sharpened by the crisp wintry air, first taking +a furtive glance at the “list,” where my name +still presided in solitary dignity. It was still early +and I was seated at the head of a long table, +where there were as yet only two or three other +guests. I felt sure that the day would be a busy +one, particularly if I should find that one companion +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page276" id="page276"></a>276</span> +with whom I was determined to attempt +the trail. It would be well to lay in a good supply +of fuel, and accordingly I asked the waiter +to get me a good beefsteak and a cup of coffee. +He suggested griddle cakes in addition, as appropriate +for a cold morning, and I assented. Then +suddenly remembering that country hotels have +a way of serving microscopic portions in what +a distinguished author has described as “bird +bathtubs,” I called over my shoulder to bring +me some ham and eggs also. “George” disappeared +with a grin. When he returned, holding +aloft a huge and well-loaded tray, that darky’s +face was a vision of delight. His eyes sparkled +and his thick lips had expanded into an upturned +crescent, wherein two rows of gleaming ivory +stood in military array, every one determined to +be seen. He laid before me a porter-house steak, +large enough for my entire family, an immense +elliptical piece of ham sliced from rim to rim off +the thigh of a huge porker, three fried eggs, a +small mountain of buckwheat cakes, and a pot +of coffee, remarking, as he made room for the +generous repast, “Ah reckon you-all’s powerful +hungry dis mawnin’, boss!”</p> + +<p>By this time the table was well filled. There +is no formality at such places and we were soon +chatting together like old acquaintances. I resolved +to open up the subject of the trail and +asked my neighbor at the right whether he intended +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page277" id="page277"></a>277</span> +to make the trip. He said “No,” rather +indifferently, I thought, and I expressed my surprise. +I had read the guidebooks to good purpose +and was soon expatiating on the wonders of +the trail, declaring that I could not understand +why people should come from all parts of the +world to see the cañon and miss the finest sight +of all, the view from below. (Somebody said that +in the guidebook.) They were all listening now. +Some one asked if it was not dangerous. “Not +in the least,” I replied; “no lives have ever been +lost and there has never been an accident” (the +guidebook said that, too)—“and, besides,” I +continued, knowingly, “it’s lots of fun.” Just +here a maiden lady of uncertain age, cadaverous +cheeks, and a high, squeaky voice, piped out,—“I +believe I’ll go.” I remembered my vow about +the one companion and suddenly felt a strange, +sickly feeling of irresolution. But it was only +for a moment. A little girl of twelve was tugging +at her father’s coat-tails—“Papa, can’t I go?” +Papa conferred with Mamma, who agreed that +Bessie might go if Papa went too. I was making +progress. A masculine voice from the other end +of the table then broke in with a few more questions, +and its owner, a man from Minnesota, whom +we afterward called the “Major,” was the next +recruit. I had suddenly gained an unwonted +influence. The guests were evidently inspired +with a feeling of respect for a man who would +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page278" id="page278"></a>278</span> +order such a regal breakfast! After the meal +was over, a lady approached and prefacing her +request with the flattering remark that I “looked +respectable,” said that her daughter, a young +lady of twenty, was anxious to go down the trail; +she would consent if I would agree to see that no +harm befell her. I thought I might as well be a +chaperon as a cicerone, since I had had no experience +as either, and promptly assured the mother +of my willingness to accept the charge. It was a +vain promise. The young lady was the first to +mount her mule and fell into line behind the +guide; before I could secure my animal others +had taken their places and I found myself three +mules astern, with no possibility of passing to +the front or of exchanging a word with my +“charge.” I fancied a slight gleam of mischievous +triumph in her eyes as she looked back, +seeming to say, “I can take care of myself, quite +well, thank you, Mr. Chaperon!” After a slight +delay, I secured my mule and taking the bridle +firmly in hand said, “Get up, Sam.” The animal +deliberately turned his head and looked back at +me with a sardonic smile in his mulish eye that +said clearly—“You imagine that <i>you</i> are guiding +me, don’t you? Just wait and see!”</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:508px; height:720px" src="images/img389.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE TRAIL, GRAND CAÑON</td></tr></table> + +<p>There were seven of us, including the guide, +as we started down the long and crooked path. +The guide rode a white horse, but the rest of the +party were mounted, like myself, on big, sturdy +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page279" id="page279"></a>279</span> +mules—none of your little, lazy burros, as most +people imagine. At first the trail seemed to descend +at a frightful angle, and the path seemed—oh, +so narrow! I could put out my left hand +against a perpendicular wall of rock and look +down on the right into what seemed to be the +bottomless pit. I noticed that the trail was covered +with snow and ice. Suppose any of the +mules should slip? Had we not embarked upon +a foolhardy undertaking? And if there should +be an accident, all the blame would justly fall +upon my head. How silly of me to be so anxious +to go! And how reckless to urge all these other +poor innocents into such a trap!</p> + +<p>Fortunately such notions lasted only a few +minutes. The mules were sharp-shod and did not +slip. They went down every day, nearly, and +knew their business. They were born in the +cañon. They would have been terribly frightened +in Broadway, but here they were at home +and followed the familiar path with a firm tread. +I threw the bridle over the pommel of the saddle +and gave Sam my implicit trust. He knew a great +deal more about the job than I did. From that +moment I had no further thought of danger.</p> + +<p>I came to have a high respect for that mule. +Most people respect a mule only because of the +possibility that his hind legs may suddenly fly out +at a tangent and hit something. I respected Sam +because I knew his legs would do nothing of the +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page280" id="page280"></a>280</span> +kind. He needed all of them under him and +he knew it. He never swerved a hair’s breadth +nearer the outer edge of the path than was absolutely +necessary. The trail descends in a series +of zigzag lines and sharp angles like the teeth of +a saw. Sam would march straight down to one +of these angles; then, with the precipice yawning +thousands of feet below, he would slowly +squirm around until his head was pointed down +the next segment and then with great deliberation +resume his journey. The guide thought him +too deliberate and once came back to give me a +small willow switch. I was riding on a narrow +shelf of rock, less than a yard wide, where I +could look down into a chasm thousands of feet +deep. “That mule is too slow,” he said; “you +must whip him up.” I took the switch and +thanked him. But I wouldn’t have used it then +for a million dollars!</p> + +<p>It was a glorious ride. The trail itself was the +only sign of human handiwork. Everything else +in sight was as Nature made it—a wild, untouched +ruggedness near at hand and a softer, +gentler aspect in the distance, where the exposed +strata of all the geologic ages caught the sunshine +at millions of angles, each reflecting its +own particular hue and all blending together in +a rich harmony of color; where the bright blue +sky and the fleecy clouds came down to join their +earthly brethren in a revelry of rainbow tints, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page281" id="page281"></a>281</span> +and the sun overhead, despite the snow about the +rim, was smiling his happiest summer benison +upon the deep valley.</p> + +<p>We came, presently, to a place called Jacob’s +Ladder, where the path ceased to be an inclined +plane and became a series of huge steps, each +about as high as an ordinary table. Here we all +dismounted, for the mules could not safely descend +with such burdens. It was comical to watch +them. My Sam would stand on each step for +several minutes, gazing about as though enjoying +the scenery. Then, as if struck by a sudden +notion, he would drop his fore legs to the next +step, and with hind legs still at the higher elevation, +pause in further contemplation. At length +it would occur to this deliberate animal that his +hind legs, after all, really belonged on the same +level with the other two, and he would suddenly +drop them down and again become rapt in +thought. This performance was repeated on +every step for the entire descent of more than +one hundred feet.</p> + +<p>After traveling about three hours, during +which we had descended three thousand feet below +the rim, we came to Indian Garden, where +an Indian family once found a fertile spot on +which they could practice farming in their own +crude way. Here we came to some tents belonging +to a camping-party, and I found the solution +of a problem that had puzzled me earlier in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page282" id="page282"></a>282</span> +the day. Standing on the rim and looking across +the cañon I had seen what appeared to be a +newspaper lying on the grass. I knew it must +be three or four miles from where I stood, and +that a newspaper would be invisible at that distance, +yet I could not imagine how any natural +object could appear white and rectangular so far +away. Presently I saw some tiny objects moving +slowly like a string of black ants, and realized +that these must be some early trail party. We +met them at Indian Garden. They proved to be +prospectors and the “newspaper” was in reality +the group of tents.</p> + +<p>We had now left the steep zigzag path, and +riding straight forward over a great plateau, we +came to the brink of some granite cliffs, where +we could at last see the Colorado River, thundering +through the gorge thirteen hundred feet +below. And what a river it is! From the rim we +could only catch an occasional glimpse, looking +like a narrow silver ribbon, threading in and out +among a multitude of strangely fashioned domes +and turrets. Here we saw something of its true +character, though still too far away to feel its +real power—a boiling, turbulent, angry, and +useless stream dashing wildly through a barren +valley of rock and sand, its waters capable of +generating millions of horse-power, but too inaccessible +to be harnessed, and its surface violently +resisting the slightest attempt at navigation; +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page283" id="page283"></a>283</span> +a veritable anarchist of a river! For more +than a thousand miles it rushes through a deep +cañon toward the sea, falling forty-two hundred +feet between its source and mouth and for five +hundred miles of its course tumbling in a series +of five hundred and twenty cataracts and rapids—an +average of slightly more than one to every +mile.</p> + +<p>Think of the courage of brave Major Powell +and his men, who descended this terrible river for +the first time, and you have a subject for contemplation +as sublime as the cañon itself. In the +spring of 1869, when John W. Powell started on +his famous expedition, the Grand Cañon was +totally unknown. Hunters and prospectors had +seen enough to bring back wonderful stories. +Parties had ventured into the gorge in boats and +had never been heard of again. The Indians +warned him that the cañon was sacred to the +gods, who would consider any attempt to enter +it an act of disobedience to their wishes and contempt +for their authority, and vengeance would +surely follow. The incessant roar of the waters +told of many cataracts and it was currently reported +that the river was lost underground for +several hundred miles. Undaunted by these fearful +tales, Major Powell, who had seen service in +the Civil War, leaving an arm on the battlefield +of Shiloh, determined, nevertheless, to descend +the river. He had long been a student of botany, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page284" id="page284"></a>284</span> +zoölogy, and mineralogy and had devoted two +years to a study of the geology of the region.</p> + +<p>With nine other men as his companions, he +started from Green River City, Wyoming, on the +24th of May, with one light boat of pine and +three heavy ones built of oak. Nothing could be +more modest than his report to the Government, +yet it is an account of thrilling adventures and +hair-breadth escapes, day by day, almost too marvelous +for belief. Yet there is not the slightest +doubt of its authenticity in every detail. At times +the swift current carried them along with the speed +of an express train, the waves breaking and rolling +over the boats, which, but for the water-tight +compartments, must have been swamped at the +outset.</p> + +<p>When a threatening roar gave warning of another +cataract they would pull for the shore and +prepare to make a portage. The boats were unloaded +and the stores of provisions, instruments, +etc., carried down to some convenient point below +the falls. Then the boats were let down, one +by one. The bow line would be taken below and +made fast. Then with five or six men holding +back on the stern line with all their strength, +the boat would be allowed to go down as far as +they could hold it, when the line would be cast +off, the boat would leap over the falls, and be +caught by the lower rope. Again and again, day +after day throughout the entire summer, this +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page285" id="page285"></a>285</span> +hard work was continued. In the early evenings +and mornings Major Powell, with a companion +or two, would climb to the top of the high cliffs, +towering to a height of perhaps two thousand +or three thousand feet above the river, to make +his observations, frequently getting into dangerous +positions where a man with two arms would +have difficulty in clinging to the rocks, and +where any one but a man of iron nerve would +have met instant death.</p> + +<p>Day by day they faced what seemed certain +destruction, dashing through rapids, spinning +about in whirlpools, capsizing in the breakers, +and clinging to the upturned boats until rescued +or thrown up on some rocky islet, breaking their +oars, losing or spoiling their rations until they +were nearly gone, and toiling incessantly every +waking hour. One of the boats was completely +wrecked before they had crossed the Arizona +line, and one man, who barely escaped death in +this accident, left the party on July 5, declaring +that he had seen danger enough. The remaining +eight, whether from loyalty to their chief or because +it seemed impossible to climb to the top +of the chasm, continued to brave the perils of +the river until August 27, when they had reached +a point well below the mouth of the Bright Angel +River. Here the danger seemed more appalling +than at any previous time. Lateral streams had +washed great boulders into the river, forming a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page286" id="page286"></a>286</span> +dam over which the water fell eighteen or twenty +feet; then appeared a rapid for two or three +hundred yards on one side, the walls of the +cañon projecting sharply into the river on the +other; then a second fall so great that its height +could not be determined, and beyond this more +rapids, filled with huge rocks for one or two +hundred yards, and at the bottom a great rock +jutting halfway across the river, having a sloping +side up which the tumbling waters dashed +in huge breakers. After spending the afternoon +clambering among the rocks to survey the river +and coolly calculating his chances, the dauntless +Powell announced his intention to proceed. But +there were three men whose courage was not +equal to this latest demand, and they firmly declined +the risk.</p> + +<p>On the morning of the 28th, after a breakfast +that seemed like a funeral, the three deserters—one +can scarcely find the heart to blame them—climbed +a crag to see their former comrades +depart. One boat is left behind. The other two +push out into the stream and in less than a minute +have safely run the dangerous rapids, which +seemed bad enough from above, but were in +reality less difficult than many others previously +experienced. A succession of rapids and falls are +safely run, but after dinner they find themselves +in another bad place. The river is tumbling +down over the rocks in whirlpools and great +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page287" id="page287"></a>287</span> +waves and the angry waters are lashed into white +foam. There is no possibility of a portage and +both boats must go over the falls. Away they +go, dashing and plunging, striking the rocks +and rolling over and over until they reach the +calmer waters below, when as if by miracle it is +found that every man in the party is uninjured +and both the boats are safe. By noon of the +next day they have emerged from the Grand +Cañon into a valley where low mountains can +be seen in the distance. The river flows in silent +majesty, the sky is bright overhead, the birds +pour forth the music of a joyous welcome, the +toil and pain are over, the gloomy shadows have +disappeared, and their joy is exquisite as they +realize that the first passage of the long and terrible +river has been safely accomplished and all +are alive and well.</p> + +<p>But what of the three who left them? If only +they could have known that safety and joy were +little more than a day ahead! They successfully +climbed the steep cañon walls, only to encounter +a band of Indians who were looking for cattle +thieves or other plunderers. They could give no +other account of their presence except to say they +had come down the river. This, to the Indian +mind, was so obviously an impossibility that the +truth seemed an audacious lie and the three unfortunate +men were murdered.</p> + +<p>We were obliged to content ourselves with a +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page288" id="page288"></a>288</span> +view of the river from this height, though I had +expected to descend to the river’s edge and felt +correspondingly disappointed. We had started +too late for so long a trip and now it was time to +turn back. Looking back at the solid and apparently +perpendicular rock, nearly a mile high, it +seemed impossible that any one could ascend to +the top. It is only when one looks out from the +bottom of this vast chasm at the huge walls on +every side that he begins to realize its awfulness. +We are mere specks in the bottom of a gigantic +mould wherein some great mountain range might +have been cast. There are great mountains all +about us and yet we are not on a mountain but in a +vast hole. The surface of the earth is above us. A +great gash has been cut into it, two hundred miles +long, twelve to fifteen miles wide, and a mile deep, +and we are in the depths of that frightful abyss +with—to all appearance—no possible means of +escape. Perpendicular cliffs of enormous height, +which not even a mountain sheep could climb, hem +us in on every side. The shadows are growing deep +and it seems that the day must be nearly done. Yet +we remount our mules and slowly retrace our +steps over the steep ascent. It seems as though +the strain would break the backs of the animals. +As we approached the summit of the path some +one remarked, “I should think these mules would +be so tired they would be ready to drop.” “Wait +and see,” said the guide. A few minutes later we +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page289" id="page289"></a>289</span> +reached the top and dismounted, feeling pretty +stiff from the exertion. The mules were unsaddled +and turned loose. Away they scampered like a +lot of schoolboys at recess, kicking their heels +high in the air and racing madly across the field. +“I guess they’re not as tired as we are,” said +the Major, as he painfully tried to straighten +up. Just then the little girl of twelve came up to +me. “There is one thing,” she said, “that has +been puzzling me all day. How in the world did +you find out so quickly that your mule’s name was +Sam?” “Name ain’t Sam,” interrupted the guide, +bluntly. “Name’s Teddy—Teddy Roosevelt.”</p> + +<p>Some years ago I had occasion to attend a +stereopticon lecture on the Grand Cañon. The +speaker was enthusiastic and his pictures excellent. +But he fired off all his ammunition of adjectives +with the first slide. For an hour and a +half we sat listening to an endless repetition of +“grand,” “magnificent,” “sublime,” “awe-inspiring,” +etc. As we walked home a young lad +in our party, who was evidently studying rhetoric +in school, was heard to inquire, “Mother, +wouldn’t you call that an example of tautology?” +I fear I should merit the same criticism if I were +to undertake a description of the cañon. Yet +we may profitably stand, for a few moments, on +Hopi Point, a promontory that projects far out +from the rim, and try to measure it with our eyes.</p> + +<p>That great wall on the opposite side is just +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page290" id="page290"></a>290</span> +thirteen miles away. The strip of white at its +upper edge, which in my photograph measures +less than a quarter of an inch, is a stratum of +limestone five hundred feet thick. Here and there +we catch glimpses of the river. It is five miles +away, and forty-six hundred feet—nearly a perpendicular +mile—below the level upon which we +are standing. We look to the east and then to the +west, but we see only a small part of the chasm. +It melts away in the distance like a ship at sea. +From end to end it is two hundred and seventeen +miles. It is not one cañon, but thousands. Every +river that runs into the Colorado has cut out its +own cañon, and each of these has its countless +tributaries. It has been estimated that if all the +cañons were placed end to end in a straight line +they would stretch twenty thousand miles.</p> + +<table class="nobctr" style="clear: both;" summary="Illustration"> +<tr><td class="figcenter"><img style="width:700px; height:479px" src="images/img403.jpg" alt="" /></td></tr> +<tr><td class="caption">THE GRAND CAÑON OF ARIZONA</td></tr></table> + +<p>If this mighty gash in the earth’s surface were +only a great valley with gently sloping sides and +a level floor, it would still be impressive and inspiring, +though not so picturesque. But its floor +is filled with a multitude of temples and castles +and amphitheaters of stupendous size, all sculptured +into strange shapes by the erosion of the +waters. Any one of these, if it could be transported +to the level plains of the Middle West or +set up on the Atlantic Coast, would be an object +of wonder which hundreds of thousands would +visit. Away off in the distance is the Temple of +Shiva, towering seventy-six hundred and fifty +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page291" id="page291"></a>291</span> +feet above the sea and fifty-two hundred and +fourteen feet (nearly a mile) above the river. +Take it to the White Mountains and set it down +in the Crawford Notch. From its summit you +would look down upon the old Tip-Top house of +Mount Washington, eight hundred feet below. +Much nearer, and a little to the right, is the +“Pyramid of Cheops,” a much smaller butte but +rising fifty-three hundred and fifty feet above +the sea-level. If the “Great Pyramid of Cheops” +in Egypt were to be placed by its side it would +scarcely be visible from where we stand, for it +would be lost in the mass of rocky formations. +Mr. G. Wharton James, who has spent many +years of his life in the study of the cañon, says +that he gazed upon it from a certain point every +year for twenty years and often daily for weeks +at a time. He continues, “Such is the marvelousness +of distance that never until two days ago +did I discover that a giant detached mountain +fully eight thousand feet high and with a base +ten miles square ... stood in the direct line of +my sight, and as it were, immediately before me.” +He discovered it only because of a peculiarity of +the light. It had always appeared as a part of +the great north wall, though separated from it by +a cañon fully eight miles wide.</p> + +<p>How are we to realize these enormous depths? +Those isolated peaks and mountains, of which +there are hundreds, are really only details in +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page292" id="page292"></a>292</span> +the vast stretch of the cañon. Not one of them +reaches above the level of the plain on the north +side. Tourists who have traveled much are familiar +with the great cathedrals of Europe. Let us +drop a few of them into the cañon. First, St. +Peter’s, the greatest cathedral in the world. We +lower it to the level of the river, and it disappears +behind the granite cliff. Let the stately Duomo +of Milan follow. Its beautiful minarets and multitude +of statues are lost in the distance, and +though we place it on the top of St. Peter’s, it, too, +is out of sight behind the cliffs. We must have +something larger, so we place on top of Milan +the great cathedral of Cologne, five hundred and +one feet high, and the tips of its two great spires +barely appear above the point from which we +watched the swiftly rolling river. Now let us poise +on the top of Cologne’s spires, two great Gothic +cathedrals of France, Notre Dame and Amiens, +one above the other, then add St. Paul’s of London, +the three great towers of Lincoln, the triple spires +of Lichfield, Canterbury with its great central +tower, and the single spire, four hundred and +four feet high, of Salisbury. We are still far from +the top. These units of measurement are too +small. Let us add the tallest office building in +the world, seven hundred and fifty feet high, and +then the Eiffel Tower, of nine hundred and +eighty-six feet. We shall still need the Washington +Monument, and if my calculations are correct, +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page293" id="page293"></a>293</span> +an extension ladder seventy-five feet long +on top of that, to enable us to reach the top of +the northern wall. One might amuse himself indefinitely +with such comparisons. Perhaps they +are futile, but it is only by some such method +that one can form the faintest conception of the +colossal dimensions of this, the greatest chasm +in the world.</p> + +<p>Still more bewildering is the attempt to measure +the cañon in periods of time. There were +two great periods in its history—first, the period +of upheaval, and second, that of erosion. +When the geologic movement was in process +which created the continent, with the Rocky +Mountains for its backbone, this entire region +became a plateau, vastly higher than at present, +with its greatest elevation far to the north. Then +the rivers began to carry the rains and snows to +the sea, carving channels for themselves through +the rocky surface. The steep decline caused the +waters to flow with swiftness. The little streamlets +united to form larger ones, and these in +turn joined their waters in still greater streams. +The larger the stream and the swifter the flow, +the faster the channel would be carved. The +softer rocks gave slight resistance, but when the +granite or harder formations were encountered, +the streams would eddy and whirl about in search +of new channels, the hard rocks forming a temporary +dam. In this way the hundreds of buttes +<span class="pagenum"><a name="page294" id="page294"></a>294</span> +were formed. The Green River and the Grand +unite to form the Colorado, the entire course of +this great waterway stretching for two thousand +miles. The two streams carry down a mighty +flood—in former ages it was far mightier than +now—which in its swift descent has ground the +rocks into sand and silt and with resistless force +carried them down to the sea. Those great buttes +and strangely sculptured temples, each a formidable +mountain, were not thrown up by volcanic +forces, but have been carved out of the solid +earth by the erosion of the waters. That river +five miles away, of which we see only glimpses +here and there, was the tool with which the +Great Sculptor carved all this wondrous chasm. +Major Powell has calculated that the amount of +rock thus ground to pieces and carried away +would be equivalent to a mass two hundred thousand +square miles in area and a full mile in thickness. +Think of excavating a mile deep the entire +territory of New England, New York, New Jersey, +Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, and West +Virginia, and dumping it all into the Atlantic. +Then think that this is the task the Colorado +River and other geologic forces have accomplished, +and pause to wonder how long it took +to complete the process! If the Egyptian kings +who built the pyramids had come here for material +they would have seen the chasm substantially +as we see it!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page295" id="page295"></a>295</span></p> + +<p>The geologic story of the cañon’s origin is too +far beyond our comprehension. Let us turn to +the Indian account. A great chief lost his wife +and refused to be comforted. An Indian God, +Ta-vwoats, came to him and offered to conduct +him to a happier land where he might see her, +if he would promise to cease mourning. Then +Ta-vwoats made a trail through the mountains +to the happy land and there the chief saw his +wife. This trail was the cañon of the Colorado. +The deity made the chief promise that he would +reveal the path to no man, lest all might wish to +go at once to heaven, and in order to block the +way still more effectually he rolled a mad surging +river through the gorges so swift and strong +that it would destroy any one who dared attempt +to enter heaven by that route.</p> + +<p>I have often been asked which is the greater +wonder, the Grand Cañon of the Colorado River +or the Yellowstone National Park. The question +is unanswerable. One might as well attempt to +say whether the sea is more beautiful than the +sky. If mere size is meant, the Grand Cañon is +vastly greater. If all the geysers of the Yellowstone +were placed down in the bottom of the +Grand Cañon at the level of the river, and all +were to play at once, the effect would be unnoticed +from Hopi Point. The cañon of the Yellowstone +River, impressive as it is, would be lost in +one of the side cañons of the Colorado.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page296" id="page296"></a>296</span></p> + +<p>The Grand Cañon and the Yellowstone are +creations of a totally different kind.</p> + +<p>The Yellowstone is a garden of wonders. The +Grand Cañon is a sublime spectacle.</p> + +<p>The Yellowstone is a variety of interesting +units. The Grand Cañon is a unit of infinite +variety.</p> + +<p>The Yellowstone contains a collection of individual +marvels, each wondrous in structure and +many of them exquisite in beauty. The Grand +Cañon is one vast masterpiece of unimagined +architecture, limitless grandeur, and ever-changing +but splendidly harmonious brilliancy of color.</p> + +<p>The Yellowstone fills the mind with wonder +and amazement at all the varied resources of +Nature. The Grand Cañon fills the soul with +awe and reverence as one stands in silence upon +the brink and humbly reflects upon the infinite +power of God.</p> + +<p class="pt2 center f90">THE END</p> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page297" id="page297"></a>297</span></p> + +<p class="center fo">INDEX</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page298" id="page298"></a>298</span></p> + +<p class="pt2"> </p> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page299" id="page299"></a>299</span></p> + +<p class="chap center">INDEX</p> + + +<div class="list f90"> +<p>Alcott, A. Bronson, <a href="#page192">192</a>, <a href="#page193">193</a>.</p> + +<p>Alcott, Louisa M., <a href="#page193">193</a>.</p> + +<p>Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, <a href="#page207">207</a>-20.</p> + +<p>Amiel, Henri Frédéric, <a href="#page118">118</a>; <a href="#page124">124</a>-27.</p> + +<p>Anderson, Mary, <a href="#page110">110</a>, <a href="#page112">112</a>, <a href="#page113">113</a>.</p> + +<p>Appledore, <a href="#page222">222</a>, <a href="#page223">223</a>, <a href="#page232">232</a>.</p> + +<p>Arbury Hall, <a href="#page20">20</a>-28.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Arizona, The Grand Cañon of</span>, <a href="#page271">271</a>-96.</p> + +<p>Arnold, Thomas, <a href="#page52">52</a>, <a href="#page98">98</a>, <a href="#page99">99</a>.</p> + +<p>Arona, <a href="#page156">156</a>.</p> + +<p>Authari, the Long-haired, <a href="#page164">164</a>.</p> + +<p>Ayrshire, <a href="#page46">46</a>-48.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Bashkirtseff, Marie, <a href="#page132">132</a>, <a href="#page133">133</a>.</p> + +<p>Bastien-Lepage, <a href="#page133">133</a>.</p> + +<p>Battlefield of Concord, <a href="#page186">186</a>, <a href="#page187">187</a>.</p> + +<p>Belgirate, <a href="#page155">155</a>-56.</p> + +<p>Bellagio, <a href="#page168">168</a>.</p> + +<p>Borromeo, Carlo, <a href="#page156">156</a>, <a href="#page161">161</a>.</p> + +<p>Borromeo, Count Vitaliano, <a href="#page154">154</a>.</p> + +<p>Bruce, Robert, <a href="#page85">85</a>, <a href="#page90">90</a>, <a href="#page91">91</a>.</p> + +<p>Burns, Robert, <a href="#page43">43</a>-48.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Burroughs, John, A Day with</span>, <a href="#page233">233</a>-50.</p> + +<p>Burroughs, John, <a href="#page227">227</a>, <a href="#page228">228</a>.</p> + +<p>Byron, Lord, <a href="#page143">143</a>, <a href="#page144">144</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Cadenabbia, <a href="#page158">158</a>, <a href="#page159">159</a>.</p> + +<p>Cañon of the Yellowstone, the, <a href="#page267">267</a>-69.</p> + +<p>Carlyle, Thomas, <a href="#page41">41</a>, <a href="#page44">44</a>, <a href="#page66">66</a>.</p> + +<p>Caroline, Queen, <a href="#page168">168</a>.</p> + +<p>Catskill Mountains, <a href="#page237">237</a>, <a href="#page238">238</a>, <a href="#page239">239</a>, <a href="#page242">242</a>, <a href="#page243">243</a>, <a href="#page246">246</a>.</p> + +<p>Channing, Ellery, <a href="#page186">186</a>.</p> + +<p>Coleridge, Hartley, <a href="#page62">62</a>.</p> + +<p>Coleridge, Samuel T., <a href="#page51">51</a>, <a href="#page61">61</a>, <a href="#page62">62</a>.</p> + +<p>Colorado River, the, <a href="#page282">282</a>-88; <a href="#page293">293</a>-95.</p> + +<p>Colvin, Sir Sidney, <a href="#page19">19</a>-21.</p> + +<p>Como, City of, <a href="#page165">165</a>, <a href="#page168">168</a>.</p> + +<p>Como, Lake, <a href="#page95">95</a>-98; <a href="#page137">137</a>; <a href="#page138">138</a>; <a href="#page150">150</a>; <a href="#page158">158</a>-68.</p> + +<p>Concord, Massachusetts, <a href="#page179">179</a>-95.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Deffand, Marquise du, <a href="#page140">140</a>.</p> + +<p>De Quincey, Thomas, <a href="#page52">52</a>, <a href="#page59">59</a>, <a href="#page63">63</a>, <a href="#page64">64</a>.</p> + +<p>Drummond, William, <a href="#page77">77</a>-84.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Ecclefechan, <a href="#page41">41</a>-44.</p> + +<p>Eliot George, <a href="#page20">20</a>-35.</p> + +<p>Ellastone, original of “Hayslope,” <a href="#page31">31</a>.</p> + +<p>Emerson, Lidian, <a href="#page188">188</a>, <a href="#page190">190</a>.</p> + +<p>Emerson, Ralph Waldo, <a href="#page17">17</a>; <a href="#page181">181</a>-92; <a href="#page249">249</a>.</p> + +<p>Esk, Vale of the, <a href="#page75">75</a>-92.</p> + +<p>Esthwaite, Lake, <a href="#page56">56</a>.</p> + +<p>Evans, Rev. Frederick R., <a href="#page28">28</a>-29.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Fields, James T., <a href="#page199">199</a>, <a href="#page200">200</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Gaeta vase, <a href="#page170">170</a>.</p> + +<p>Gallio, Cardinal, <a href="#page168">168</a>.</p> + +<p>Gould, Jay, <a href="#page236">236</a>, <a href="#page237">237</a>.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Grand Cañon of Arizona, the</span>, <a href="#page271">271</a>-96.</p> + +<p>Grant, Gen. U. S., <a href="#page244">244</a>.</p> + +<p>Grasmere, <a href="#page59">59</a>, <a href="#page60">60</a>, <a href="#page61">61</a>, <a href="#page65">65</a>, <a href="#page66">66</a>.</p> + +<p>Gravedona, palace of Cardinal Gallio, <a href="#page168">168</a>.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Great Britain, Literary Rambles in</span>, <a href="#page15">15</a>-48.</p> + +<p>Green, Thomas H., <a href="#page117">117</a>, <a href="#page118">118</a>, <a href="#page122">122</a>, <a href="#page123">123</a>, <a href="#page124">124</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page300" id="page300"></a>300</span></p> + +<p class="pt2">Haines, George, <a href="#page170">170</a>-74.</p> + +<p>Hawthorne, Elizabeth, <a href="#page198">198</a>, <a href="#page199">199</a>.</p> + +<p>Hawthorne, Madam, <a href="#page198">198</a>, <a href="#page200">200</a>.</p> + +<p>Hawthorne, Nathaniel; + in Concord, <a href="#page179">179</a>-95; + in Salem, <a href="#page196">196</a>-206.</p> + +<p>Hawthorne, Sophia Peabody, <a href="#page180">180</a>, <a href="#page185">185</a>; <a href="#page198">198</a>; <a href="#page199">199</a>.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Hawthornden to Roslin Glen, From</span>, <a href="#page73">73</a>-92.</p> + +<p>Holmes, Oliver Wendell, <a href="#page17">17</a>.</p> + +<p>“House of the Seven Gables, The,” <a href="#page196">196</a>, <a href="#page202">202</a>-06.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Il Medeghino, <a href="#page160">160</a>-63.</p> + +<p>Iron Crown of Lombardy, <a href="#page165">165</a>.</p> + +<p>Isles of Shoals, the, <a href="#page222">222</a>-32.</p> + +<p>Isola Bella, <a href="#page152">152</a>-55.</p> + +<p>Isola dei Pescatori, <a href="#page155">155</a>.</p> + +<p>Isola Madre, <a href="#page155">155</a>.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Italian Lakes, A Tour of the</span>, <a href="#page147">147</a>-74.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Jonson, Ben, <a href="#page81">81</a>-84.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Lacus Larius. <i>See</i> Como.</p> + +<p>Lacus Verbanus. <i>See</i> Maggiore.</p> + +<p>“Lady Wentworth,” scenes of, <a href="#page220">220</a>, <a href="#page221">221</a>.</p> + +<p>Laighton, Oscar, <a href="#page229">229</a>.</p> + +<p>Lamb, William and Caroline, <a href="#page141">141</a>-44.</p> + +<p>Lasswade, <a href="#page75">75</a>-76.</p> + +<p>Lecco, Lake, <a href="#page95">95</a>, <a href="#page96">96</a>.</p> + +<p>Lespinasse, Julie de, <a href="#page139">139</a>-41.</p> + +<p>Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, <a href="#page17">17</a>; <a href="#page159">159</a>; <a href="#page220">220</a>; <a href="#page221">221</a>.</p> + +<p>Lowell, James Russell, <a href="#page17">17</a>; <a href="#page55">55</a>; <a href="#page232">232</a>.</p> + +<p>Lugano, Lake, <a href="#page96">96</a>, <a href="#page151">151</a>, <a href="#page157">157</a>, <a href="#page159">159</a>.</p> + +<p>Luino, <a href="#page156">156</a>, <a href="#page157">157</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Maggiore, Lake, <a href="#page96">96</a>, <a href="#page149">149</a>, <a href="#page150">150</a>, <a href="#page152">152</a>-56, <a href="#page159">159</a>.</p> + +<p>Mammoth Hot Springs, <a href="#page255">255</a>-57.</p> + +<p>Medici, Gian Giacomo de (Il Medeghino), <a href="#page160">160</a>-63.</p> + +<p>Melbourne, Lord, <a href="#page141">141</a>-44.</p> + +<p>Menaggio, <a href="#page160">160</a>.</p> + +<p>Minute-Man, the, Concord, <a href="#page186">186</a>, <a href="#page187">187</a>.</p> + +<p>Monument, the, on battlefield of Concord, <a href="#page186">186</a>, <a href="#page187">187</a>.</p> + +<p>Musketaquid, river at Concord, <a href="#page185">185</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2"><span class="sc">New England, Literary Landmarks of</span>, <a href="#page175">175</a>-232.</p> + +<p>Nuneaton, <a href="#page20">20</a>, <a href="#page22">22</a>, <a href="#page29">29</a>, <a href="#page30">30</a>.</p> + +<p>Nutter House, the, <a href="#page207">207</a>-16.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Old Faithful, <a href="#page254">254</a>; <a href="#page262">262</a>-65.</p> + +<p>Old Manse, the, <a href="#page179">179</a>-86.</p> + +<p>Oxford, <a href="#page99">99</a>-100.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Passmore Edwards Settlement, London, <a href="#page103">103</a>-09, <a href="#page127">127</a>.</p> + +<p>Pattison, Mark, <a href="#page100">100</a>; <a href="#page117">117</a>-21; <a href="#page126">126</a>, <a href="#page127">127</a>.</p> + +<p>Peabody, Elizabeth Palmer, <a href="#page198">198</a>.</p> + +<p>Peabody, Mary (Mrs. Horace Mann), <a href="#page198">198</a>.</p> + +<p>Peabody, Dr. Nathaniel, <a href="#page197">197</a>.</p> + +<p>Peabody, Sophia. <i>See</i> Hawthorne, Sophia Peabody.</p> + +<p>Pliny, the Elder, <a href="#page160">160</a>, <a href="#page166">166</a>.</p> + +<p>Pliny, the Younger, <a href="#page166">166</a>, <a href="#page167">167</a>.</p> + +<p>Pogliaghi, Lombard decorator, <a href="#page170">170</a>, <a href="#page171">171</a>.</p> + +<p>Portsmouth, N.H., <a href="#page207">207</a>-21.</p> + +<p>Powell, Major John W., <a href="#page283">283</a>-87.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Ripley, Rev. Ezra, <a href="#page182">182</a>.</p> + +<p>Ripley, Rev. Samuel, <a href="#page182">182</a>.</p> + +<p>“Robert Elsmere,” <a href="#page102">102</a>, <a href="#page109">109</a>, <a href="#page110">110</a>-27.</p> + +<p>Roslin Castle, <a href="#page86">86</a>-88.</p> + +<p>Roslin Chapel, <a href="#page88">88</a>, <a href="#page90">90</a>.</p> + +<p>Roslin Glen, <a href="#page75">75</a>-92.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page301" id="page301"></a>301</span></p> + +<p class="pt2">St. Clair family, of Roslin, <a href="#page87">87</a>, <a href="#page88">88</a>, <a href="#page91">91</a>, <a href="#page92">92</a>.</p> + +<p>Salem, Massachusetts, <a href="#page196">196</a>-206.</p> + +<p>Salpion, Greek sculptor, <a href="#page170">170</a>.</p> + +<p>“Scarlet Letter, The,” <a href="#page201">201</a>-02.</p> + +<p>Scott, Sir Walter, <a href="#page37">37</a>, <a href="#page38">38</a>, <a href="#page39">39</a>, <a href="#page45">45</a>, <a href="#page46">46</a>, <a href="#page75">75</a>, <a href="#page76">76</a>, <a href="#page89">89</a>, <a href="#page90">90</a>, <a href="#page239">239</a>.</p> + +<p>Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, Concord, <a href="#page187">187</a>-89.</p> + +<p>Southey, Robert, <a href="#page51">51</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Thaxter, Celia, <a href="#page221">221</a>, <a href="#page223">223</a>-32.</p> + +<p>Theodelinda, Queen of the Lombards, <a href="#page163">163</a>-65.</p> + +<p>Thoreau, Henry D., <a href="#page182">182</a>-91; <a href="#page228">228</a>.</p> + +<p>Tower of London, <a href="#page18">18</a>.</p> + +<p>Tremezzo, <a href="#page168">168</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Varenna, <a href="#page163">163</a>.</p> + +<p>Victoria Monument, London, <a href="#page40">40</a>.</p> + +<p>Villa Bonaventura, <a href="#page169">169</a>.</p> + +<p>Villa Carlotta, <a href="#page168">168</a>, <a href="#page169">169</a>.</p> + +<p>Villa d’Este, <a href="#page168">168</a>.</p> + +<p>Villa Maria, <a href="#page169">169</a>-74.</p> + +<p>Villa Pliniana, <a href="#page167">167</a>, <a href="#page168">168</a>.</p> + +<p class="pt2">Walden Pond, <a href="#page191">191</a>.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Ward, Mrs. Humphry, The Country of</span>, <a href="#page93">93</a>-146.</p> + +<p>Ward, Mrs. Humphry, scenes of novels, <a href="#page36">36</a>, <a href="#page37">37</a>, <a href="#page111">111</a>-17; <a href="#page128">128</a>-31; <a href="#page134">134</a>-38; <a href="#page145">145</a>; <a href="#page169">169</a>.</p> + +<p>Washburn, Gen. Henry D., <a href="#page253">253</a>.</p> + +<p>Wayside, the, Hawthorne’s house in Concord, <a href="#page193">193</a>, <a href="#page194">194</a>.</p> + +<p>Wentworth House, <a href="#page220">220</a>-21.</p> + +<p>Westmoreland, <a href="#page51">51</a>-72; <a href="#page98">98</a>; <a href="#page131">131</a>; <a href="#page134">134</a>; <a href="#page135">135</a>; <a href="#page136">136</a>; <a href="#page239">239</a>; <a href="#page241">241</a>.</p> + +<p>White, Gilbert, <a href="#page228">228</a>.</p> + +<p>Wilson, John (Christopher North), <a href="#page52">52</a>.</p> + +<p>Windermere, Lake, <a href="#page54">54</a>; <a href="#page68">68</a>; <a href="#page70">70</a>; <a href="#page98">98</a>.</p> + +<p>Windermere village, <a href="#page51">51</a>.</p> + +<p><span class="sc">Wordsworth’s Country, A Day in</span>, <a href="#page49">49</a>-72.</p> + +<p>Wordsworth, Dorothy, <a href="#page41">41</a>, <a href="#page63">63</a>, <a href="#page64">64</a>, <a href="#page65">65</a>.</p> + +<p>Wordsworth, Mrs., <a href="#page63">63</a>.</p> + +<p>Wordsworth, William, <a href="#page41">41</a>; <a href="#page51">51</a>-72; <a href="#page98">98</a>; <a href="#page158">158</a>; <a href="#page239">239</a>-43.</p> + +<p class="pt2"><span class="sc">Yellowstone, Glimpses of the</span>, <a href="#page251">251</a>-69.</p> + +<p>Yellowstone Lake, the, <a href="#page261">261</a>; <a href="#page267">267</a>.</p> + +<p>Yellowstone National Park, the, <a href="#page295">295</a>, <a href="#page296">296</a>.</p> + +<p>Yellowstone River, the, <a href="#page267">267</a>, <a href="#page268">268</a>.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="art" /> +<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page332" id="page332"></a>332</span></p> + +<p class="center f80">The Riverside Press<br /> +CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS<br /> +U. S. A.</p> + +<hr class="art" /> + + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Lure of the Camera, by Charles S. Olcott + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LURE OF THE CAMERA *** + +***** This file should be named 35960-h.htm or 35960-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/5/9/6/35960/ + +Produced by Marius Masi, Greg Bergquist and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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